


If She Were Not

by Blurgle



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6679033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurgle/pseuds/Blurgle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lady Mary Tudor blames herself for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Depths of Her Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still in the process of rewriting By the Grace of God but in doing so I've found myself pulled in a slightly different direction (I'm fleshing out Ned Bayne and Queen Eleanor, basically, and giving Ned a reason not to run away). I'm therefore going to hold off on the next book of that story until I'm finished rewriting the first one.
> 
> That said, I was browsing the Challenge Master List at ff.net last night and I noticed the Prince Mary Challenge (#417) posted by ReganX…and I desperately need a day off, so this strange Freaky Friday awesomeness burst forth. I don't know how often I'll update it – probably only when I'm stuck on a section of my primary work – but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> I've followed Tudor history here to a much greater extent than The Tudors, as I'm more familiar with the former.

8 September 1540  
Hunsdon House, Hertfordshire

Mary lay in bed unable to sleep, the bare plaster ceiling above her a bitter, mocking reminder of her failure.

If Mary had been born a boy there would be a canopy of estate over her head proclaiming her status as Prince of Wales and England's next sovereign. She would never have had to sign her soul away to save her life, would never have been subjected to the abuse she'd suffered at the hands of that witch Anne Boleyn and her minions.

If Mary had been born a boy her father would never have been tempted to cast away her mother, would never have turned against Holy Church, would never have imperilled his soul by attempting to try one cardinal and going so far as to execute another. England would still be an obedient daughter of Christ and the souls of the English people would not be tainted by Luther's heretical reforms.

If Mary had been born a boy the Devil would have had no reason to enter Anne Boleyn. She firmly believed Satan had only infested the harlot's soul because he'd seen how he could use her to manipulate her mother's vulnerability and her father's insecurity into providing him with a healthy crop of damned souls. Elizabeth might still have been born – or at least she hoped she would be, as she loved her sister dearly – but her mother would have been acknowledged by all as the King's whore and Elizabeth would have been considered bastard-born at birth, as she truly was.

If Mary had been born a boy her father would never have killed so many good men to marry Anne, would never have killed so many good men (and evil) to get rid of her either. The monasteries would still flourish and the churches would still bear their rood screens, crucifixes, sacred paintings, and holy statues; most importantly, the poor and sick of the realm would still be cared for. How many innocent men and women had perished in ditches and fields, how many had died huddled alongside roads or in the abandoned wrecks of chantries and convents? How many had seen the thread of their lives snapped by that malicious, greedy monster Cromwell, now rotting in his grave, and his toadies?

If Mary had been born a boy her mother might still be alive. Chapuys had once told her that Anne and her vile Lutheran brother George had poisoned Queen Katherine with arsenic disguised in Welsh ale. He'd even gone so far as to suggest that the patently false charges that had sent the two of them to their deaths had been a disguised act of holy justice. Of course she could never be certain that Mother would be alive; she had after all been five years older than Father, so perhaps God would have called her home by now anyway. But there was always a chance…a chance that was never realized.

If Mary had been born a boy…they would be living in a golden world.

But she was a girl and they were not.

She rolled onto her side, moving quietly so as not to disturb her gentlewoman of the bedchamber, Barbara Hawke, who was sleeping on a pallet at the foot of her bed. Perhaps it wasn't entirely her fault; her father would surely have to answer one day for beheading the witch instead of burning her as God had surely intended and thereby cancelling the spells she'd concocted. But none of it – not Father's 'marriage' to the witch, not the deaths of so many good men and women, not the butchering of the Pilgrims of the North, not even her mother's abandonment and cold-blooded murder – would have happened had Mary been born a boy.

That was her fault, and she and all of England paid the price for it every day.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep – only to open them again as searing pain tore up her right arm.

_Fire!_

She tried to rise, tried to open her mouth to call out to Barbara, tried to move her uninjured hand, but the light was so bright she could only squeeze her eyes shut against blinding, screaming pain.

"Your Highness!"

She knew that voice: that was Thomas More.

Was she in Heaven?

She carefully opened her eyes again, peering up into…it was! She tried to speak but only a strangled croak came out.

"Oh, praise God!" he cried – but why was he wearing a cassock? And why was he so old?

Or was Heaven where you found your true calling and lived to the age you were supposed to? Is that why he'd called her Highness?

Her heart suddenly swelled; God knew she was a princess! God knew—

Another voice, this one somewhere behind her, broke into her thoughts. "How is the Prince?"

The _Prince_!? Had she and Edward died at the same time? Oh, no: please, God, no—

"There was some movement, doctor," More said, "but I fear the blow to the head may have caused damage." He looked down into her face again, and she could see terror in his eyes: so she was not in Heaven where fear was unknown. "Your Highness, are you able to speak?"

"Where am—" she began – but why was her father's voice suddenly in her ears?

"You're at Windsor Castle, sir," a third man said as he hovered over her—

—and she suddenly couldn't catch her breath. "Why are you, why, no, no…" but she couldn't get her mouth to move right. She'd seen that face a thousand times before in her nightmares; she'd begged God a thousand times to send him to the Hell he'd climbed out of.

What was George Boleyn doing here?

And why in God's holy name had he called her 'Sir'?


	2. And She is Blessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am never putting Seymour, Butts, and a Dick in the same scene again.

8 September 1540  
Windsor Castle

 

"I don't believe the skull is fractured…"

_What – who…_

Her eyes cracked open only to snap shut against the sunlight slicing across her face from the right. She was drowning in an ocean of pain; her head felt as if it were caught in a vice, her right shoulder and arm were throbbing with every beat of her heart, and every inch of her ached as if she'd been thrown with force down a flight of stairs. There had been something about fire, if she remembered right…fire or an accident…

"…but I can't be certain, not until I can properly examine—"

"Dr. Phipps!"

She opened her eyes again as dark shapes approached her, blessedly blocking out the light. "Doctor, what do you think?" a voice came.

"Give me a moment, Father." Fingers brushed against both of her temples and wrapped around her good wrist. "Strong pulse, minimal bruising around the eyes, no sign of excessive phlegm production...has His Highness voided yet?"

 _His_ Highness?! How badly injured was she that they didn't even realize—

…and in a flash it all came back to her.

She'd been lying in bed, her mind conjuring up a golden world where she had been born a boy and England had avoided all the ills of the past fifteen years, and then she'd fallen asleep and found herself caught in the strangest dream…

…and either she was still in that dream or – or it wasn't a dream at all.

Another beam of light suddenly cut across her face. "Sun…hurts…" was all she could get out in an odd voice before some merciful soul pulled the curtains shut.

"Your Highness, can you hear me?"

She nodded, squinting up into the face of a young man wearing a black physician's cap.

"Dr. Richard Phipps, sir," he said. "Your lord father the King has sent me to care for you. How do you feel?"

She opened her mouth, but although she knew what she wanted to say the words wouldn't come. "Pain – fro-front," she finally stammered, lifting her left hand to show him where – but she was shocked into silence as a massive paw came into view. She'd always been so proud of her dainty wrists, her slim fingers…

"Sir, can you tell me where we are?"

"Huns…Hunsdon…" but she stopped; there was a canopy of estate above her head. "Not…"

His eyes narrowed. "I take it you can understand me, sir?"

She nodded, wincing at the stabbing pain even that slight movement brought. "I…I…not speak."

"You're unable to form words to answer?"

"No…mouth."

"You can form thoughts, then, but you can't translate them into words?"

She nodded again, this time careful not to move too quickly.

"I've seen this before," he said, looking up at – at Thomas More, who was standing on the other side of the bed with a concerned frown. That was right; in this dream (or whatever it was) he was still alive – but why was he wearing priest's robes?

The doctor turned back to her, worry lines forming between his brows. "Does it hurt to nod, sir?"

She barely moved her head this time.

"And do you remember everything that happened to you?"

"Remember…nothing."

"Nothing of the tilt, or nothing at all?"

 _Tilt?!_ She tried to explain but the words would not come. "Father…England…Princess…"

"Which Princess do you remember, sir?" Thomas More asked.

She couldn't stop the tears. "Mary…"

"Jesus have mercy," he breathed, crossing himself; out of the corner of her eyes she saw the other men follow his lead. "You don't know where you are, then?"

"Not Huns…" but she fell back, her eyes fluttering shut of their own accord. She was exhausted, dizzy, nauseated, consumed by pain – and yet she didn't dare drop off, she had to know—

"We'll let His Grace rest for now," Phipps said, his voice growing faint as he stepped away from the bed. "The speech and memory issues should resolve themselves over the next few days, but no matter what happens I've given the King my word I'll remain at Windsor until he's out of danger."

"So you believe the Prince will eventually recover his memories?" a voice said – George Boleyn's, if she remembered right. He had been there too…

"He seems to remember his blessed aunt's execution; I can't see why he wouldn't…"

She bit her lip so as not to gasp out loud. That was the Mary they thought she'd meant – but _execution_? Why would her father have killed his own sister? And why did they call her blessed?

"I wouldn't go that far," Boleyn said. "All we can tell is that His Highness remembers Blessed Queen Mary herself. I can only wonder how likely it is that he'll remember…"

A pregnant pause.

"It's simply too early to know, Your Grace," the doctor replied. "The brain is a mystery even to the wisest and most experienced physicians. I've seen men in the Prince's condition recover almost immediately but I've also seen…but never mind that; we have our orders. His Majesty has asked me to attend on him; while I'm away, Sir Henry, I would ask that the curtains be kept closed. If His Grace opens his eyes again, please send down…"

What orders…but she felt herself slipping away before she could—

By the time she woke again it was evening and the candles had been lit. "Where – where am I?" she asked a man sitting beside her bed.

"The state apartments at Windsor Castle, Your Highness. The King and Queen are in the Chapel Royal praying for your recovery and the Prin—"

"Sir Francis, no!" More barked. "Not another word!"

"But—"

"The Prince is not yet himself," a languid voice added, and if that wasn't an understatement she'd eat her kirtle – except that she wasn't wearing a kirtle and likely never would again, if this turned out to be something other than a dream or a vision.

But what else could it be?

 _It could be reality,_ her inner voice suggested. _This could be the Lord's doing._

 _Or Satan's_ , she replied.

Thomas More's voice interrupted her dialogue. "Return to the King if you will, Sir Francis, and advise him that the Prince is awake."

As the young man bowed and left she suddenly realized with horror exactly what her body was calling for…how was she supposed to— "I…I have to…" and she gestured down.

The languid voice spoke again. "Is it safe to move him, Dr. Phipps?"

"If his head is supported – ah, I see the issue. Let us help you, Highness; don't try to move."

And then came the strangest sensation of her life; they sat her up, her head cradled carefully, her shoulder screaming in protest, and – and one of them touched – _oh no…_

She could only squeeze her eyes shut against the panic and terror and sense of complete and utter _wrongness_ and concentrate on the process of voiding itself. If this were a dream she wouldn't have been able to imagine this; if this were a vision from God He would not have given her one of… _those_ …or wasted her time with a basic bodily function.

This was real.

She was a man.

Once she'd finished they tucked…that _thing_ …back under her shirt and gently returned her to bed. She could now clearly see the three men clustered around her: Thomas More, still in his inexplicable priest's robes; Dr. Phipps, the physician who had interrogated her earlier; and a bearded man whose hauntingly familiar eyes reminded her of someone she hadn't seen in years. "I'm sorry," she said to him, "but I don't recognize…"

"Sir Henry Seymour, Your Highness, brother to the Duchess of Wiltshire," he replied with a dip of his head as Phipps retreated to wash his hands. "Father More said you were having issues with your memory and His Majesty thought it best that you be attended by men of experience and discretion."

Jane's brother! She almost asked after her but stopped when she realized that she didn't know if she'd ever met Jane in this world, or if it was Jane or one of her sisters who had married the Duke of…

…of Wiltshire.

The doctor had called George Boleyn 'Your Grace'.

_Please, no._

She cleared her throat. "My…my lord father the King is well?"

"The King prospers most exceedingly well, sir," Sir Henry replied, "and is looking forward to testing his mettle against the perfidious French."

"And my…and Queen Katherine?" she asked, relieved that she could put the words together to ask – but as soon as she said the words all three men froze. "What is it?"

"Sir, perhaps—"

"Please, I must know."

The men traded looks. "Will," Thomas More finally said, "your mother died a great many years ago."

"Queen Katherine was taken by God shortly after the birth of the late Prince Edward, sir, in November of 1521," Phipps chimed in as he returned to her side. "Your Grace was only five; I'm surprised you remember her."

1521? Then—

But what did Sir Thomas just say? "Did you just…did you call me Will?"

His brow knit. "Yes, sir; you are Prince William. Do you not remember?"

"I…I am a prince, I apprehend that," she replied, "and from the embroidery on the canopy of estate above me I must assume myself Prince of Wales, unless this is not my room. Other than that…am I an only child?"

More hesitated. "You are the Prince of Wales, sir, and your father's only living child with your lady mother. You however also have two younger brothers, the Princes Edmund and Charles, and a sister, the Princess Elizabeth—"

_Elizabeth!_

"—borne of His Majesty's current lady Queen."

"The sister of my brother-in-law, sir," Sir Henry added. "The former Lady Anne Rochford."

Her eyes snapped shut. If God had sent her here…or was that why he had? Was she expected to scourge the realm of the harlot and her diabolical filth? If so—

"Are you well, sir?" the physician asked. "Do you require—"

"It's just a twinge, Doctor – Phipps, is it?" she said, opening her eyes again and fiercely repressing the urge to vomit. "Forgive me for alarming you. Might I have something to eat?"

"Of course, sir. Boy!" he cried, turning to a page waiting nervously near the door. "Bring the Prince bread and meat. I trust the small beer at Windsor is fresh?"

"Brewed today, Doctor."

"Then bring some of that up as well." He turned back to Mary. "Forgive me, sir, but I don't want you drinking wine or strong beer until I'm certain you've fully recovered. Do you remember speaking to me earlier?"

"Yes; I couldn't get any words out but I was able to understand everything you said."

"That's an excellent sign, sir. From your questions I take it Your Highness's memory has yet to recover?"

"I regret not, although—"

The door burst open. "Don't you dare move a muscle!"

It was her father, slimmer and in far better health than the last time she'd seen him, his eyes full of concern and…and love.

He'd never looked at her like that before, not even when she was the pearl of his world.

"I don't want you risking yourself with even a nod of the head," he continued as he strode into the room and planted himself at her bedside, gesturing for the other men to rise from their bows. "Your lady mother and I have been worried sick. How are you, son?"

"Much better, Your Majesty – Father," she choked out; why had he called the harlot her mother? "I can only credit Dr. Phipps – and Your Majesty's prayers, of course – for my recovery."

"And your memory is returning? George told me you remembered my blessed lady sister."

"I did, sir, and I remember Your Majesty, of course, and – and Mother," she forced herself to say. But why would he bring up Aunt Mary if he'd killed her?

Or had he?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Thomas More glance her way. He must have caught the evasion – so why did he seem relieved?

There was far too much going on for her to sort out at the moment.

Father took her hand. "Anne is still in the Chapel Royal wearing out her knees and her rosary beads; she's arranged for masses to be said for your recovery as well. I swear to God, Will, you gave her the fright of her life today."

"Then I must apologize—"

But he shook his head. "Don't; your lady mother would be the first to tell you that – and let me assure you she's as proud of you as I am. You're the best—" and he turned away, just for a second; Mary had the impression he was fighting back tears. "You're the best son any King could ask for, although I grieve that we'll now have to do without your ready sword in France. I know how much you wished to punish King Louis personally for his insult to God and our family."

She felt lost; who was this King Louis and why had he – but her father was waiting for an answer and she could only hope not to anger him. "Must I forgo that honour, sir?" she improvised. "I would not see a King's head taken by a lesser man."

For a moment she wondered if she'd gone too far but her father beamed with pride. "Now there's the true English spirit!" he said to Thomas More approvingly, thumping him on the shoulder. "Between your tutelage and mine, Tom, he's the most honourable prince England's ever seen!"

But More demurred. "I cannot take any credit for Prince William's honour, sir; that derives from Your Majesty's own honourable nature and, of course, that of Queen Anne – and the late Queen Katherine, of course."

"You have the right of that," her father sighed. "I've been remarkably fortunate in my wives, haven't I? Anne is a treasure, of course, but Katherine was a true warrior. I remember Norfolk saying he didn't think Flodden worth the battle, but she certainly showed all of us what a daughter of Isabella could achieve. In fact, do you remember…"

Mary listened dumbfounded as her father spent a good three minutes extolling her mother's virtues. Not once in twenty-four years of life had she heard him utter a single word in praise of her; not once in twenty-four years had he even so much as alluded to her valour, piety, or strength of character. To him she'd always been the stubborn old 'Dowager Princess' he'd grown to loathe. But in this world she had brought him a son – two, if Sir Thomas had spoken right – and that had made all the difference.

Her supper arrived just as Father was winding down. "Eat up, Will!" he said, resting his hand gently on her free shoulder. "Phipps doesn't want you getting out of bed just yet – isn't that right, Doctor?"

"Not until tomorrow at the earliest, Your Majesty," he confirmed.

"Then I'll return tomorrow. Doctor, Tom: a moment of your time."

She watched them leave as the groom placed the salver before her and poured the beer. A day ago she would have given all she had for her father's love and approval; why, then, did it hurt so much to have it now?

 _Because it's proof he didn't love you before,_ she answered herself. He'd put on a show of caring when she was young but any love he truly felt was reserved for those who gave him what he wanted – and no Princess, no matter how highly born, could ever do that.

She'd spent four years chasing a shadow, praying for the day he'd love her again – and it was only now that she realized he'd never had the capacity to love her in the first place.

But her stomach interrupted her with a rumble; she reached for a slice of bread but found it uncommonly difficult to get her hand to do what she wanted it to. "My balance and movements are off," she said to Sir Henry, who had stayed behind to keep her company – and how strange it was to be left alone in her bedchamber with a man.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "It's not unusual after an injury to the head, sir. I've seen such things happen more than once to gentlemen on the hunt, and in my experience it always clears up within a day or two."

Now that was interesting; from what she remembered Sir Henry was a quiet, retiring gentleman who'd never had much time for country pursuits. "Which hunt is this?" she asked.

"The Wiltshire Hunt, sir. As Warden of Savernake Forest since my lord father's death it's my duty to officiate, at least while I'm in the county."

She almost dropped the bread.

In her world Edward Seymour was the eldest son and as such had inherited the wardenship at Sir John's death. "You have brothers, Sir Henry?" she asked, almost dreading the answer.

"Two living, sir: Sir Anthony and Master Thomas, both of whom are members of your household. They're both looking forward to travelling to France at the end of the month, although I suppose they'll now go with the King and not yourself."

"To do battle against King Louis," she murmured. "I seem to remember an older brother – and sisters, if I recall correctly."

"You remember Sir Edward, then?"

"Only his face and name, I'm afraid, and even then…"

He nodded in understanding. "I ask because Sir Edward was attached to Your Highness's household for some years before his death in the pestilence of '28—"

She sucked in a breath. Ned was gone!

"—and it seems as if your earlier memories are returning before more recent ones."

"Yes, I suppose they are," she somehow got out. "And your sisters?"

"I have three living, sir. Elizabeth is, as I said, Duchess of Wiltshire, and Dorothy was just last month married to Lord Shrewsbury. Jane…" and his face reddened, "has recently been obliged to take vows at Dartford Priory."

She felt the blood drain from her face. Surely her father hadn't—

"Sir, don't distress yourself!" he cried, rising to his feet. "Your Highness had nothing to do with my sister's dishonour, I assure you."

"I am glad to hear it," she replied, once again at sea. "I take it then that…"

And the full meaning of Sir Henry's words suddenly hit her. He'd meant to reassure her that she hadn't meddled with Jane, but by his reaction it was clear she probably had meddled with some lady along the way.

She was a man, after all.

She finished the bread and ham in silence, her mind reeling. She was no longer a woman; not only could she no longer claim the status of virgin – no man, after all, possessed a maidenhead – but she had almost certainly had relations with…with another woman.

 _You are twenty-four years old and Prince of Wales_ , her inner voice suddenly told her; _you've probably swived half the ladies of the court._

She hadn't anticipated any of this; how could she? Her imaginings had been just that – the meandering, half-formed dreams of a neglected princess who'd been forced to deny her God-given birthright in order to survive. She'd never anticipated God acting on her thoughts, and even if she had she would never have expected her friend Ned Seymour to pay the price for them with his life. Ned was dead, Ann Stanhope, her dearest and oldest friend, was likely married to someone else (if she had been so fortunate as to find a husband with her meagre dowry), and Jane, that sweet, gentle lady who should have been Queen of England, had been seduced, abandoned, and immured against her will in a convent.

And Aunt Mary had died by the executioner's sword.

She peered over at Sir Henry, the pain in her shoulder momentarily forgotten as another possibility came to mind. "If I may ask…do I have any children that you know of?"

But at that his lips grew thin. "Your Highness's lord father the King has ordered your attendants not to speak of certain…delicate matters, sir. I apologize, but I cannot disobey a direct order."

"No, of course not," she replied, privately rueing his integrity. "In that case, are you able to tell me if I have any particular friends?"

"Now that I can do, sir," he said, his face relaxing. "My brother Sir Anthony has the honour to be one of your closest companions, as do Sir Francis Weston, Master John Paulet, and Master Thomas Culpeper – no, forgive me: Tony mentioned the last gentleman recently left your service under some sort of cloud. You're also especially close friends with His Grace the Duke of Suffolk."

She stared at him, puzzled. "The Duke…"

"Henry Brandon, Your Highness. He and you share as close a friendship as your lord father the King did with the first Duke."

So Charles Brandon was dead, although how she obviously didn't know; had Father sent him to the block for marrying Mary? Had he died of the sweating sickness? Had his death somehow led to Mary's execution? "Where is His Grace?" she asked.

"He had intended to travel to France with Your Highness, but at the moment he's in attendance on his lady mother the Dowager Duchess. I understand she doesn't have long to live."

"The Dowager Duchess…"

"The former María de Salinas, sir, one of Queen Katherine's Spanish ladies. She married the first Duke about a year before your own birth."

So Charles had married María instead of Aunt Mary (or María's daughter, for that matter) – and Henry Brandon wasn't her cousin.

That made no sense at all. If the world had changed because she had been born a boy, how could that have resulted in Charles Brandon marrying María de Salinas before she was born – before she was even conceived?

Just then the door opened to readmit Thomas More, who was accompanied by Dr. William Butts – and if that man wasn't a sight for sore eyes Mary didn't know who was. "Dr. Butts, good evening."

"Good evening, Your Highness," he said, bowing deeply. "How is your shoulder tonight, sir?"

"It hurts, but not as much as—" But she couldn't say that; in this world she'd never had her courses. "Not as much as other injuries I've received. In fact, until I shifted position just now I hardly felt it."

He peeled back the bandages covering her lower arm; she was surprised to find it an angry red, as if she'd scraped half the skin off. "We were fortunately able to reduce the dislocation almost immediately," he said, frowning at the wound, "which does make a difference. No chills or unusual sweating, sir?"

"Nothing of the sort. Was I injured during a tournament? No one's said."

"Not precisely a tournament, sir; you were training for battle when your horse slipped in the mud and you were thrown against a fence."

She grimaced. "And now I won't be going to…France, is it?"

"That's correct, sir, nor will you be able to wield a sword for some time."

A sword…she'd never practiced defence in her life. She was able to ride astride – her mother had made sure of that – but if this turned out to be something other than a vision she'd have to acquire a lifetime of military training in a few short months.

And that was only the start of it. She'd have to learn how to handle herself with other men – and with women as well; she'd have to adjust to the expectations of the world; she'd even have to learn to speak as a man. She'd be expected to sit, stand, and walk differently, and then there would be…

She looked up, realizing with a start what her companions were waiting for. "My horse…"

"I regret that it was necessary to put Ceredigion down, sir," Sir Henry said, the corners of his mouth turning down. "There was no choice."

At that she nodded, feigning the stoic grief expected of a prince who'd just lost a valuable destrier. "Thank you. I, um…I would rest for a while, if you don't mind."

"Of course, sir."

Most of the gentlemen departed, leaving her alone with Thomas More and a single page at the door. She had so many questions but if her father had given orders…but perhaps there were some things she could still get answers to as long as she avoided any mention of her own life. "My memory is returning only in fits and starts," she began, "and what I do remember seems to be from my youth. Are you permitted to tell me why we're waging war with France?"

His face grew grim. "Ostensibly we're on a crusade, sir, as the Holy Father has issued a papal bull calling for the overthrow of King Louis."

"King Louis the Twelfth?"

"The Thirteenth, sir; the son of Louis the Twelfth and your lady aunt, the blessed Queen Mary. His Majesty and Emperor Charles have agreed to coordinate their attacks, and with God's grace they'll succeed in returning the kingdom to faith and obedience."

So her birth as a boy had saved England from the horrors of Luther's madness but France had fallen into error instead…but no, that wasn't right; Aunt Mary's short time as French Queen had ended a year before she was born, and she hadn't borne the King a son. Why, then…

But that was a puzzle she wasn't up to figuring out at the moment, not with her shoulder throbbing and her head beginning to ache again. "Are you also permitted to tell me what happened to my lady aunt?" she asked.

"I am, but I must ask you to prepare yourself, for it is very bad news," he said. "Blessed Queen Mary was charged with treason by her son, King Louis, for refusing to swear an oath denying the Pope's authority and confirming his place as supreme head of the Church of France. She was duly convicted and beheaded by the Executioner of Paris on 19 May last."

She gasped out loud. Matricide!

"She died a martyr of the holy Catholic faith," he continued, his eyes moist, "and as such the Holy Father attended to her beatification as soon as he was advised of her demise. I must however warn you not to bring the matter up with Queen Anne—"

No doubt she approved of it.

"—for if the good Queen weeps any longer the King's Navy will find itself carried to France on her very tears."

Once again she found herself shocked into silence. The good Queen, he'd called her. But Anne was Satan's minion! She'd destroyed the Church, she'd poisoned Mary's mother, she'd even had this man beheaded! How could he not see—

—or had Anne been spared?

Just last night she'd imagined the possibility of Anne Boleyn escaping the Devil's clutches, but she'd blithely assumed her father would never have married her had she not cast a spell on him. Surely a knight's daughter would never rise so high on her own…

 _Jane Seymour was a knight's daughter,_ her inner voice helpfully reminded her.

But More was still waiting for an answer. "I will remember not to mention it, Sir Thomas," she said, before stopping herself. "Father More, I mean: my apologies."

"There's no need," he replied, waving away her concern. "I've only been a priest since my lady wife and father died in the great pestilence, and as you mentioned Your Highness's memories mainly arise from before that time."

"They do," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She'd been momentarily worried that her father had forced him out of his marriage and into the priesthood for some reason, but it wasn't at all unusual for a devout widower with grown children to enter the Church; Cardinal Campeggio, after all, had done much the same thing.

_Alice More is dead._

Would the horrors ever cease?

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but she couldn't leave off thinking about Anne. Why had her father married her if she hadn't put a spell on him? Perhaps…but perhaps Satan had simply possessed the woman Father would have married had he been truly free, knowing that he could best wreak havoc if Anne had a reason to break England away from obedience to God's holy church. In this world he'd found an England impervious to his trickery, so he'd taken his malicious wickedness to France.

There were three million Englishmen and twenty million Frenchmen - seventeen million more souls ripe for the picking.

There was nothing she could do about that.

She drifted away, sleep overtaking her…until a loud disturbance roused her with a start. "What…"

She was alone – all but Father More, who was snoozing in his chair beside her bed – but outside her bedchamber door she could hear a harried guard trying to explain something to a hysterical young woman who was screaming, crying, begging to be let into her room—

But she knew that voice. It was that light child – that stupid little bitch! Hadn't she suffered enough from her as a woman? Must she—

The door burst open and a frantic Kathryn Howard raced toward her in a froth of tangled blonde hair and blind shrieking terror. "Will, darling!" she cried, taking Mary's good hand as More stumbled to his feet. "I just heard! I was at Lambeth, they didn't tell me anything! Are you all right? Did you fall, my love? Do you know me? It's Kathryn! They say your memory—"

At first she didn't understand; how did Kathryn know where her bedchamber was, why had the guards let her pass, why had she thought Mary would want to see her…why had she called her 'darling'?

_Oh._

And the blackness took her away.


	3. The White Cliffs of Dover

22 September 1540  
Dover Castle

The three siblings stood on the castle wall-walk, their eyes trained on the thin, pale line just barely visible beyond the vast flotilla of crayers, picards, caravels, and carracks crowding the harbour.

Calais.

"Fifty thousand men," Ned breathed, "and all in the service of God."

Charles laughed. "In the service of Father, you mean."

"You think there's a diff—"

"Edmund Tudor!" Mary barked. "Take care not to insult either the Lord God or our father the King. You too, Charles; speak respectfully."

"But—" Ned began.

"I said that you are to _speak_ respectfully at all times," she repeated, praying they would catch her emphasis; to underline it, she flashed a look at the yeoman warder standing by the door.

"But Will…" Charles's eyebrows flew upward as comprehension dawned. "Of course, brother. Many apologies." He looked back at the ships departing the harbour, his expression turning pensive. "You still don't remember any of it?"

"Not a moment of it, no," she replied, keeping her voice and expression neutral. "In truth I'm impressed that I was able to organize such a massive expedition on my own – although I'm sure Father and the members of his Privy Council did their share of the work."

"Of that, my sweet William, I must disabuse you," Edmund said, a corner of his mouth quirking up as he looked back at her. "Our father the King gave you your head and you made him the proudest man in Christendom – or so he's told Charles and me a hundred times. Do you think you could do it again?"

She pondered the question. "With help, perhaps. It's not my intellect that's affected but my recent memories, and the physicians assure me they'll return soon enough." Which was all true enough; she could have organized a war in her own world had anyone thought her fit to do so.

But Charles's mind was still across the water. "Do you think there'll be good fighting, Ned?" he asked. "Or will the French run away like cowards?"

"War's in their blood," he replied confidently. "Mind you, the common people might refuse to raise arms against forces blessed by the Pope, at least if they aren't too badly contaminated by Luther's heresy."

Mary would have liked to agree but she wasn't so naïve as to think the French cared more about their faith than their homeland – and rightly so, since as far as she could tell this 'crusade' was nothing but a cynical land grab cloaked in legitimacy by the fortuitous death of a martyred queen. Once King Louis was dead and the throne restored to the Catholic faction (whoever that was) the allies would 'request' certain concessions – Normandy to England, eastern Provence to Savoy, Champagne to Burgundy, Corsica back to Genoa, and Bayonne and Narbonne to Spain – and if she could see that after two weeks in this world, the French surely could see it as well.

Nobody had made plans for failure; why would they when God was on their side?

Godly or not, though, the enterprise left a bitter taste in her mouth. Would the Holy Father have named her a martyr if Father had sent her to the block in her world? Would Christendom have howled for vengeance against the man who cut off her head? Had she lost the chance of sainthood and a guaranteed place at the Lord's side by taking the Oath of Supremacy? The notion might appeal to her sense of fairness as much as losing the certainty of Heaven broke her heart, but her practical side had rejected the comparison as inexact. The French Queen's refusal to swear her son's odious oath had been made solely on religious grounds; Mary's own refusal had involved not just religion but her own legitimacy and place in the line of succession, and no foreign potentate, not even the Emperor or the Holy Father, would stand in the way of another king's right to choose his heir. There was also no question that the sin of killing a disobedient daughter paled in comparison to that of beheading one's own blameless mother; even the arch-infidel Suleiman had shrunk back in disgust from that crime, breaking his treaty with France and signing a truce with the Empire.

She watched Edmund as he leaned out over the battlements, his black eyes gleaming in the early morning sun. Fifteen years old and the very picture of his long-dead maternal grandfather Thomas Boleyn, Ned was destined to wear not the helmet and armour he was dreaming of at the moment but choir dress and, God willing, mitre. Charles, on the other hand, was at eleven already his father's son and would one day make a magnificent soldier – if he could only learn to control that tongue of his.

Charles suddenly hopped up onto the balls of his feet, the ends of his wavy red hair brushing against the trim of his doublet. "Will! The Cardinal's here!"

"The Cardinal…" There was only one man she knew who was called by that name. She followed his gaze down to the courtyard – and her mouth dropped open.

How on earth was Thomas Wolsey still alive?

In her world he'd died a full ten years ago, worn down by years of negotiations and travels and paperwork and, at long last, bitter failure and the promise of a treason trial. How ironic that her birth as a boy had bought years of life for the man who'd worked himself to death trying to destroy her – but only at her father's orders, she reminded herself. "I remember him, but as a younger man," she said. "How old is he now, do you know?"

"Sixty-six last St. Berthold's Day," Ned supplied. "I used to be attached to his household."

So not as ancient as she'd thought. "I suppose his arrival means our lord father will desire our attendance. Shall we?"

They complied unwillingly, Edmund not tearing his eyes off the horizon until the last possible moment. What would Boleyn have said had he lived to see his grandson, a boy stamped with his every feature, destined for the Catholic Church? Or would he still have been a reformer in this world had he not died along with Charles Brandon in the jousts celebrating Mary's – or William's – birth?

With a shake of her head she followed her brothers down to the third floor, her bound shoulder throbbing with every step she took down the uneven spiral staircase. She had been in this world for two weeks and still she didn't have a handle on who was alive and who was dead, let alone who among the living still served her father. With preparations for war consuming everyone's time but hers she hadn't felt it her place to pester her supposed friends; even her confessor Thomas More had found himself run off his feet since they'd arrived at Dover. She still had questions but they would have to wait until she could find someone willing to defy her father and answer them, as he'd forbidden any discussion of her private life – and none of her companions had proven willing to disobey him.

Fortunately the King was in an expansive mood that morning. "Boys!" he cried, beckoning them to rise from their bows as Sir Richard Riche stepped away from his side. "What do you think of our mighty armada?"

"Majestic, sir," Edmund said before Mary could get a word in edgewise. "I can't be the only one rueing the ground under my feet at the moment, eh, Will?"

"I won't deny it, Ned," she replied, playing the game as best she could. "If anyone's more envious of our lord father than you it's me – but I suspect His Majesty would be the most envious if I were the one leading the expedition."

At that her father laughed out loud. "You know me all too well! Naturally we can't both be out of the realm at the same time but oh, how I wanted that French bastard to see the two of us fighting side by side. That would have shown him, wouldn't it?"

"The only drawback to that, sir, would be that I could never hope to outshine you. Any other man I could best – or at least hope to."

"Don't say that," he replied, waving his hand, although her fawning drivel had clearly pleased him. "You might very well have outfought me, son, and I would have been so very proud if you had. Ned, Charles, why don't you go find your lady mother? I believe she has a matter of importance to discuss with the two of you. Sir Richard, gentlemen; if you'd leave us as well."

Riche dipped his head. "Yes, sir."

Once they were alone Henry rested a hand on Mary's good shoulder. "How are you feeling, son? Tell me the truth; it must be hell having your arm tied up in that sling all day long."

"To be honest it doesn't bother me that much, sir; the pain is almost gone and your tonic has done wonders. I don't know if I've ever felt stronger or more alert."

"That's the lad," he said, beaming, but his face suddenly grew thoughtful. "When I think of all the boys your lady mother and I lost before you were born – weak, pale infants who would have never been half the prince you are – I can only thank God for knowing His business. Had you been Duke of York or Somerset and forced to serve one of them as I was my brother Arthur…England's fortunate to have you as Prince of Wales, son. How's the memory?"

At that she could only shrug. "Nothing yet. I can recognize some faces and names, I can remember most of my studies, but other matters are still as opaque as they were that very first day. I don't know how many prayers I've said asking God to heal me but still…"

He nodded, his expression showing far less concern than the admission should have warranted. "Your physicians said as much. I…I'm naming you and your lady mother co-regents, Will; I hope you don't mind."

So that was why he'd sent everyone away; he'd expected her to take umbrage at what was in truth an eminently sensible decision. "I don't mind in the least, sir," she said. "In your place I would have done the same thing."

Relief flooded his face. "I'm glad my decision hasn't touched your honour too severely – but this accident seems to have matured you, hasn't it?"

She made to answer but he forestalled her reply. "I don't mean that as an insult," he said. "You've always been a man of great honour and strength, but I suffered an injury much like yours shortly after your mother's death, and when I look back at the man I was before…I'm only glad God lifted the scales from my eyes before Anne arrived at court. Headstrong, thoughtless of my life, self-absorbed, unconcerned with anything but my own pleasure: that fall was the making of me, son, and I don't doubt yours will be the making of you once you recover."

"I can only hope to be the best Prince and son I can," she replied, schooling her face to hide the sting in her father's words, as the accident he'd suffered in her world – he'd almost drowned after trying to vault over a mud puddle – had done nothing but inspire him to annul his marriage and strip Mary of her legitimacy. _He probably saw it the same way,_ she thought. _No wonder he'd hadn't been able to understand how he'd gone wrong._

Before she could continue a knock came at the door. "Enter."

One of her father's grooms poked his head through the doorway. "Your Majesty, His Eminence has arrived and is awaiting your presence in St. Mary's."

"Thank you. Shall we, Will?"

She followed him out into the Great Hall and took her place beside Queen Anne, who dropped her arm from around Charles's shoulders and curtseyed deeply as she and her brothers bowed. Mary hadn't quite figured out Anne yet; a devout Catholic, a loving mother, and a woman of obvious high honour, she didn't seem anything like the harridan who'd cast a spell on her father in her world, yet from time to time over the past two weeks she'd caught hints of a temper and determination that reminded her all too well of her erstwhile nemesis. But the Devil can only work with the tools man gives him; the Dark One hadn't made Anne temperamental so much as he'd manipulated that temper into serving his needs.

It wasn't the first time she'd had to remind herself of exactly how powerless Satan was. The realization that only God would have been able to send her to this world had comforted her, she couldn't deny, but at the same time she'd felt the need to pray incessantly for the soul who must have originally inhabited her body and who, she fervently hoped, was now in Heaven with their mother. Mary despaired that she couldn't have masses said for William Tudor but she dared do nothing that might raise suspicion and prevent her from carrying out whatever plan God had in mind for her.

"Your Majesty," her father said with a courtly bow to Anne, "Your Highnesses, lords, ladies, and gentlemen. Today we embark upon a journey not of vengeance or greed but of holy justice, a journey which with God's help will return France to the faith of its forefathers. As such, I have asked His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey to celebrate Mass before we depart. Nan, shall we?"

The King and Queen led them all down the long, steep winding staircase to the courtyard and into St. Mary's in the Castle, where Wolsey and the choir and ordinary of the church were waiting for them. Mary desperately wanted to lose herself in prayer but even in such holy surroundings she had to keep her guard up; Latin was a gendered language, after all, and it would do no good to offer the wrong response.

Once Wolsey had pronounced the dismissal and they'd returned to the courtyard she took a careful look around. Every day brought new yet familiar faces; last week William Compton had returned to her father's side along with Henry Carey, while just yesterday she'd spotted Henry Norris – Viscount Langley in this world – entering the castle. She didn't begrudge Norris's survival (or his ennoblement) any more than she did Francis Weston's position in her household, as she remembered Chapuys had believed the men who'd died with Anne and George Boleyn had been wholly innocent of wrongdoing. 'A Queen cannot be convicted of adultery unless her lovers are known, Princess,' he'd pointed out. 'The men Monsieur Cromwell prosecuted were chosen for other reasons, I'm sure, but none of them would have dared meddle with the witch – and not one of them was guilty of any crime deserving death."

How she missed her old friend; how she prayed Eustache was alive and safe in this world.

He wasn't the only one she prayed for. She was most worried for Anne Stanhope, of course, but she also prayed for Anne of Cleves, Frances Jerningham, Barbara Hawke, Lady Salisbury, and even Hal Howard, whose kinship to both of her father's less pleasant queens had never affected the deep and abiding respect he'd always shown her. It was of course understandable that none of the women would be with her – they could hardly be attached to a man's household, after all – but her heart still ached for them.

She swung up into the saddle of a dark Arabian stallion, waving off the groom's assistance, and followed the King and Queen down the tortuous path to the harbour below where the _Peter Pomegranate_ was waiting. As they dismounted she momentarily wondered how they intended to bring her father on board the tall carrack but before she could ask he'd drawn her and Anne aside and taken their hands in his. "I don't need to tell you how to act on my behalf," he said to them in low tones. "I have every faith in you both and I know you'll do all you can to keep England safe."

"Thank you, Majesty," Anne said. "I give you my word before God that we will dedicate ourselves to carrying out your wishes to the best of our abilities."

"As do I," Mary added.

"I have no doubt of that. Will, I can't promise you Louis's head – that goes to the Holy Father – but I'll do my best to send you his doublet. I think your mother Queen Katherine had James of Scotland's stored away somewhere; in no time you'll have a matching set."

She grinned. "I expect no less, sir."

"You deserve no less. No matter what happens, even if…I couldn't leave England in better hands than yours, son."

How this could be the same selfish, vindictive, cruel man she remembered she didn't know. "God will bring you home safe and healthy, sir."

She stepped back to rejoin her brothers and Thomas More as Father took private leave of Anne. "I take it the soldiers are confessed?" she said to More under her breath.

He all but rolled his eyes. "Confessed and made right with God, sir, just in time to cross the Channel and sin again. I trust Your Highness is feeling better?"

She sighed. "To an extent. I'd like to make confession myself before we return to London."

"Of course, sir."

Father flew up the rope ladder behind Will Compton as deftly as if he'd been born a sailor, answering Mary's earlier question handily; she and Anne dropped to their knees, the rest of their company following their example as the vessel pushed off from the wharf. Would she ever see her father again? Would he die in France? Was this why God had brought her to England, to rule as King?

But she stopped herself; that made no sense at all. The William Tudor her friends had described seemed perfectly capable of ruling in his own right; why, therefore, would God replace him – and with a woman, of all people? And even if he had been destined to be a bad King, Edmund hadn't made his vows yet and was still free…

…and there was another clue to the great mystery Father was hiding from her. The first had been Sir Henry Seymour's refusal to tell her whether she had children; the second had been the empty, discoloured spot on the wall beside William's portrait at Windsor Castle showing where a matching portrait had been recently removed.

It didn't take a scholar to figure out what she wasn't being told; she only wanted to know why.

She rose to her feet as the ship left the harbour and held out her good arm to Anne. "Shall we, Your Majesty?"

"Thank you, Your Highness. I take it Your Eminence is returning to London with us?" she asked Wolsey, who was walking on her other side.

He dipped his head. "Majesty, I regret my health precludes travelling any great distance by land. I and my household will be departing this afternoon – William," he asked, turning to the knot of men trailing behind him, "when does our ship leave?"

The man she'd known as Gregory Cromwell stepped forward. "At three, Eminence."

"Then I expect to be in London by Friday evening at the very latest, madam," he said to Anne. "If Your Majesty has anything she wishes to discuss before we part…"

"I don't but I believe Will might." And she squeezed Mary's arm.

She blinked. Why would…but of course; as a Prince of the Church Wolsey enjoyed a certain freedom other men did not. "As a matter of fact, I would appreciate an hour of Your Eminence's time for a private discussion; perhaps we could meet after dinner?"

He bowed his head. "I am at Your Highness's command."

They were to dine that morning at Dover Priory, a Benedictine institution nearly as old as the castle they'd just departed. As they remounted their horses and turned northward Mary's mind went back to the visit she'd paid that summer to the site of the priory, one of the hundreds destroyed by Cromwell's minions in Kent alone. There hadn't been anything left of the priory save a few stones and a single wooden barn that had somehow survived the looters. Seeing the buildings whole sent a chill up Mary's spine much like the one she'd felt when Wolsey had appeared that morning, and for the same reason; a great institution – flawed, imperfect, yet still magnificent – had returned to life.

Prior Lambert met them at the door once they'd dismounted. "Allow me to welcome you to our humble priory on this solemn but reverent occasion," he said as his servants led away their horses. "Might I interest Your Majesty, Your Eminence, and Your Graces in a tour of the grounds before dinner? We have—"

Mary interrupted him before he could launch into whatever speech he'd prepared. "I for one would enjoy such a tour," she said, "but I believe Her Majesty and His Eminence would appreciate a moment to refresh themselves."

His brows flew up. "Of course! What am I thinking? Brother Francis," he said, beckoning over a stoop-shouldered old monk, "please show the Queen and the Cardinal to the guest lodges. Your Majesty and your ladies will find female servants waiting to assist you – of the highest possible morals, of course," he quickly added, as if he feared the matter was in doubt.

Anne dipped her head, hiding the same smile Mary was fighting. "Thank you, Father Prior. Eminence?"

Once they'd gone the prior turned back to her, his face red with embarrassment. "Forgive me, Your Grace; I didn't realize…"

Mary stopped him with a shake of her head. "We gentlemen sometimes forget that great ladies such as the Queen and Lady Norris are expected to dress to a certain standard, and their attire tends to be quite heavy as a result. Imagine being as small and weak as a woman and yet having to wear armour everywhere; that they rarely complain of it is a mystery to me."

The prior paused. "I hadn't considered the matter in that light, Your Grace – but of course you have the right of it. Shall we, sir?"

They made their way through the entry and toward the abbey church; as Prior Lambert described in detail the repairs and other changes that had been made over the past two years she took a moment to breathe in the scent of the English countryside and allow herself to relax. The past two weeks had been among the most strenuous of her life; only the strength of her new body (injured or not) and her fear of disappointing God had kept her from breaking down completely.

They eventually found themselves at the gate of a fine orchard. "Your older monks must enjoy the benches you've placed out there," she said to Lambert, wincing as Edmund and Charles shared a snicker behind their backs. "Pray forgive my brothers, Father Prior."

He smiled. "Young men will act as they will, sir, and maturity comes when it does. And yes, the monks do appreciate a place to sit and enjoy the natural world. In fact, one of my more venerable monks prefers to make his confession here in the midst of God's handiwork."

"No one can hear?"

"If we speak in low enough tones, no."

Perfect. "Shall we return?" she asked him. "I wouldn't want to leave my lady mother waiting for too long, and of course we'd like to wash before dinner."

"Of course, sir. Brother Mark," he called, "please see the Princes to the guest lodge."

Francis Weston helped Mary remove her sling once they were indoors and had been shown to a room; she dropped her arm to her side, holding back a groan as shoulder and elbow both protested the move. "Why do I have to do this?"

"Because if you don't your elbow will lock and it'll be ten times worse later on," Weston replied as he began to flex the elbow for her. "That's what Dr. Butts said, and he should know."

She nodded, meeting her own gaze in the polished metal plate that served as a mirror. She still found it strange to see someone else's reflection staring back at her – a broad-shouldered man's, at that – but she couldn't help but feel pleased that in this world she resembled her parents and not her pinch-faced great-grandmother Margaret Beaufort. She had her mother's eyes and mouth, her father's brow and nose, and – well, she didn't know where the cleft chin had come from; perhaps that was Edmund Tudor's. "I suppose you don't know why my parents named me William?" she asked Weston, hoping to draw him out.

"It's no secret," he replied. "The King tells the story every year on your birthday. It was your lady mother Queen Katherine who named you; she said you would be a conqueror and that you would be named accordingly."

Mary couldn't help but smile at that. "She laid down the law, then?"

He lifted her arm so it was pointing straight forward. "The King wasn't prepared to complain. I don't know if you remember that they lost four children before you were born, and one daughter between Your Highness and Prince Edward."

"Edward's the one who died – in the pestilence of '28, wasn't it?"

"One of them; do you remember Princes Henry and Owen?"

She shot him a glance. "No one's mentioned them. They were my brothers?"

"Your half-brothers, yes. Henry was four and Owen only an infant when the pestilence took them. You survived, though – relax your fist – as did the Queen, although she lost the child she was carrying at the time."

"I pray God gave her comfort," she murmured, crossing herself with her free hand. "When did the King marry Queen Anne?"

Weston released her arm, his brow knitting. "I believe it was January of '23, about six months after she arrived from France with Princess Renée—" The blood drained from his face. "Oh my God."

And there it was: the answer she'd been hoping to get out of Wolsey.

In truth she'd suspected from the very first that she had a wife hidden away somewhere. Her father would never have allowed his Prince of Wales to remain unmarried for so long, and were she widowed her father would have had no reason to keep her in the dark. She'd briefly wondered if she was married to Kathryn Howard – perish the thought – but if that had been the case the bitch wouldn't have had to strong-arm her way into Mary's room that first night. No, a marriage to Renée made a great deal of sense; although she was six years older than Mary she was the best marriage prospect in Europe as the sister-in-law of the King of France…

…but in this world she was the sister of the King of France – the very king they were at war with.

That might explain the order of silence.

She opened her mouth, intending to ask Weston why – but the look of sheer terror in his eyes stopped her. "You haven't told me anything I didn't already know," she said, smiling as he heaved a sigh of relief. "Father didn't want me to find out, I'm aware of that, but he can't stop my memories from returning, can he?"

"No, of course not. Shall I rewrap your arm?"

"In a moment, please; I have to use the close stool first."

She turned away and prepared to empty her bladder, deciding it was a good a time as any to change the subject. "You can't be happy about remaining in England with me," she said over her shoulder as she flipped up her codpiece and attended to the act she still found intensely distasteful. "If you'd rather be in France…"

"In truth, I'm glad i stayed; I tend to agree with Father More about the futility of war – and to be honest I'd rather be in England when Anne delivers."

That was right; he was married. "When is your lady wife due?"

"In late October, the midwives say. I hope the army is back by then; I'd hate to see them bogged down in the winter rains. If only your lord father had agreed to wait."

She shook herself dry and readjusted her clothing. "I'd wondered why we were going on campaign so late in the year," she said as she turned back to him. "It was my father's idea, then? I thought I'd made the arrangements."

"You did, for the spring. The King had different plans."

They shared a glance. "We've had this conversation before," she ventured.

He nodded.

"And you can't tell me why we're embarking on a war this late in the year?"

"I may be your friend but I serve the King and—"

"—and you must obey his orders," she finished for him. "Rest assured I won't force the matter, Francis. Or do I usually call you Frank?"

"You call me Francis when we're around others; between ourselves, however, I am Patch."

She laughed out loud. "Patch? You're far from a fool."

"And that," he said, smiling widely, "is why you call me so."

"I'm glad I still have a sense of humour." With a fond shake of her head she washed her hands and let Francis retie her sling. "I'm going to take the Cardinal into the orchard after dinner. Would you be so kind as to entertain my brothers?"

"I'd be pleased to. You might wish to ask His Eminence about his own recovery; he suffered a similar injury to yours almost ten years ago, if I recall right."

She frowned at him. "A shoulder injury?"

"Knock on the head," he replied. "He was at sixes and sevens for a good week, according to Will Cromwell."

Dinner was a typical monastic repast – typical, that was, in that the prior was caught between wanting to provide the best meal he could to his royal guests and not wanting to give them the impression that the monks ate that well every day. Mary did her best to carry the conversation but she wasn't able to chase away the butterflies congregating in her stomach.

A Cardinal of the Church served his king, it was true, but he also served the Holy Father. Mary would have to convince Wolsey that it was in the Church's best interest that she be told everything of her marriage to Renée and everything else she was being kept in the dark over. What were Anne's ties to Queen Mary and Princess Renée? Did she and Renée have children – or did she have children with anyone else? Was Kathryn Howard her mistress, or something more? And why was her father so healthy and…and so mild?

All too soon they rose from table. "With your permission, Father Prior," Anne said, "my ladies and I would like to spend some time in your lovely flower gardens. Will, were you going to…"

"I had hoped to accompany Cardinal Wolsey to the orchard Father Prior showed me earlier," she said, turning to the cardinal. "I understand Your Eminence takes a great interest in the planting of apples and cherries, and if I'm not mistaken I spotted a few apricots against the north wall as well – or did I, Father?"

"Indeed you did," the prior replied, bowing. "I wish you an enjoyable visit."

They set out toward the orchard. "I hope it's not too far for Your Eminence to go by foot," she said, holding her arm out to Wolsey.

"Not at all, Your Highness. I'm perfectly capable of walking; it's riding that tires me." He still took the arm, though, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Gregory – _no, William_ – Cromwell hovering nearby.

They made their way past the flower garden and down a gentle winding path. "The prior told me the orchard is so remote he can confess his oldest monk in it without fear of being heard," she said as they neared the gate. "I must admit myself baffled by what such an elderly man could have to confess."

Wolsey chuckled. "An old man has the same desires as a young man, sir; he only lacks the means to carry them out."

"That may be true but…but forgive me; I lack the wit at the moment to jest. I am sorely afflicted, Eminence, and I can only beg for your help."

His hand tightened around her forearm. "No need to beg; I promise I will do what I can."

She steered them between the rows of apple trees, gesturing to young Cromwell to remain behind at the gate, and led Wolsey to the furthest bench. She expected he'd let go of her as soon as they sat but instead he drew her close and wrapped his free hand around hers and spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't faint. Whatever I say, don't faint."

"I won't. Is the news that bad?"

But he didn't answer her question. "For ten years I've wondered what would happen if I died and there was nobody to replace me—"

Her mind spun with shock. Francis had said he'd been 'at sixes and sevens' ten years ago – after an accident…no, it couldn't be…

"—but God's sent you to carry the torch for me…hasn't he, Mary?" And he met her gaze.


	4. Watling Street

22 September 1540  
Dover Priory

 

Mary sat stock still, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, nothing registering in her whirling, distraught mind but the smell of windfallen apples and Wolsey’s hand clasped around hers.

He knew what had happened; he recognized her for who she really was.

“I was brought here almost ten years ago,” he said, answering the unaskable. “For the first week I thought I’d gone mad.”

“I thought I’d gone to Heaven.”

“This is no Heaven, sir – may I call you ‘sir’? I mean no disrespect; it’s simply more natural.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mind.”

“Then no Heaven, sir,” he said, tightening his grasp on her hand, “and no Hell or Purgatory either. Men are born, men die, there’s pain and pleasure…this is the world, although how it is I cannot explain. At least I’m the same person I was, if healthier; I can’t imagine what you must be experiencing.”

“The less said the better, Eminence.” She opened her eyes, meeting his sympathetic gaze. “Ten years?”

“In November of 1530. I was being brought back to London to face charges—”

“For treason; I remember hearing of it.”

He snorted. “Let us be honest with each other, sir: I was accused of failing to work a miracle. I was in the abbot’s rooms at Leicester in the most tremendous pain, telling Sir William Kingston that if I’d served God as I had the King he wouldn’t have abandoned me to die an old man in a stranger’s bed, and then my eyes dropped shut. The next thing I knew I was kneeling in the dirt at Hampton Court in the presence of yon boy at the gate.”

“Gregory Cromwell?”

“William in this world. Everyone’s William; you’re very popular.” He paused. “Did I cheat the headsman that night?”

She nodded.

“I thought as much. Were you sick as well when you…?”

 _When you died_ , he meant. “I wasn’t sick, no,” she replied. “I was in bed at Hunsdon House dreaming of the golden world that would have come to pass had I been born a man, and then I awoke at Windsor.”

“And as a man, just as you dreamt. I am sincerely sorry for it, sir, doubly so since this is in truth a world not of gold but of tarnished, crumbling tin.” He paused. “But why did you assume you were in Heaven, if I might ask?”

She glared at him. “The first voice I heard was Thomas More’s; what would you think?”

“Well, then—” His voice trailed off as the full implication of what she’d said hit him. “The King – he didn’t…”

“He did,” she murmured. “It was…five years ago, I believe; I was all but imprisoned at the time myself. Forgive me; I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

He released her hand and crossed himself. “Blessed Virgin and the saints. Who – no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if my children—”

“They’re alive and well,” she cut in. “One of my ladies is cousin to Thomas’s wife, and although I don’t know exactly how they fare I do know they live and aren’t in any danger.”

“I hadn’t considered the possibility – I’d…I’d assumed that world was—”

She clasped his hand again and waited patiently for him to regain his composure. It was a beautiful morning, the same kind of warm, lazy, late summer morning that Englishmen had risen to for a thousand years and, God willing, would rise to a thousand years in the future, and yet the bees in the asters and the geese rooting around under the cherry trees had muddled into the midst of a miracle – two miracles – that no one other than Mary and Wolsey would ever know of and that they themselves could not begin to understand.

At last Wolsey took a deep breath and turned back to her. “Forgive me, sir, but I…”

“Don’t give it another thought,” she said. “They were your children. Of course you’d worry.”

His mouth was a thin line. “They died here in the Great Pestilence along with Will Cromwell’s family, Ned Seymour, Richard Pace, Alice More…for a time I wondered if I’d invented a world in my head where they’d all survived.”

“Francis said three of my brothers died in the pestilence. I don’t remember it causing that much havoc in our world.”

“It didn’t.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “I’ve never been able to explain how King Louis's birth in France or yours in England could have caused the sweat to cut such a deep swath through this realm. A million men, women and children died that summer, sir: one-third of the English people, gone in two short months.”

“A million…” She struggled for breath, trying to imagine— “How many of my friends…”

“Far too many, I suspect – although obviously I don’t know who they were. You were only a child when I…when I came here.”

“Of course not,” she replied, her voice hollow in her ears; _a million people…_ “I used to see you when I visited court. You were always with Father; Mother always said you were pouring poison into his ear.”

“Your mother, may she be in the arms of God, never accepted that your father was responsible for his own actions,” he said. “She blamed me for being his procurer when there was nothing I would have liked better than to see him a paragon of fidelity; she blamed me for wanting to strip you of your status when I begged the King to make use of the good faith clause. I will admit that when he ordered me to obtain an annulment I obeyed as best I could, although I had hoped he’d marry a French princess.”

“But you didn’t want him to go through with it.”

He gave her a long, searching look. “Nobody did, sir, not even Mistress Anne.”

“Not even—” But Anne had seduced her father! She had been possessed – she had broken apart her parents’ marriage to do Satan’s work! She hadn’t been forced—

"She made the best hand possible of the cards she was dealt," he said. "I won't ask if he succeeded in marrying her; I don't want to know, and in all honesty Your Highness would be well advised to forget the past as best you can. I know from personal experience how difficult that is, but if you can: remember the people and what they're capable of, not the events."

She closed her eyes as emotion once again threatened to overwhelm her. Anne Boleyn…a million deaths…her father…

"I hadn't thought of any of it for years," he said, heaving a deep sigh. "In this world both of his queens have given him sons. I can see now with the benefit of hindsight that his mania was never about leaving an heir or ensuring the stability of the realm; he craved a son because a legitimate son legitimated him in his own eyes. That's all he ever cared about: his own right to the throne."

“I…I can’t…” She shook her head; there was sense in his words but she simply couldn’t take it all in, not after… “I still worry about Anne. Is she truly a Catholic?”

“Queen Anne is without question the most sincere, most pious Catholic I’ve ever met in my life,” he said. “Perhaps the death of her father or the years she spent in France with the blessed Queen made the difference, but I can’t help but see a strange irony in the fact that had she been as fervent a Catholic in our world as in this one she likely wouldn’t have held out for marriage.” He slid her a knowing gaze. “But I doubt you brought me to this spot to hear about Anne Boleyn.”

“Actually, in a way I have,” she said. “The King’s prohibited any word of my private life from coming to my ear, although Francis let slip today that I’m married to Renée. Otherwise I’ve been treated to many scintillating conversations about the weather, jousting, the ladies of the court—”

Wolsey chuckled.

“—but not a word about my personal life, and Anne is somehow woven into the cloth.”

“Perhaps I can elucidate, sir. Might we stretch our legs? I find sitting for any length of time excruciating.”

“Of course; please let me know when you need to sit again.”

They took a winding path around the gooseberry bushes to the eastern edge of the orchard, where the gardeners had recently dug up a section of the sod. “Before I begin, I should tell you that I’m no longer a member of your father’s inner circle and as such I cannot tell you precisely why he’s ordered you kept ignorant,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Since my ‘accident’ in 1530 I’ve gone into partial retirement; when your lord father veers close to the Charybdis – as he still regularly does, I regret to advise – the Queen sends for me and we do our best to steer him back into calmer waters. Otherwise I remain at Hampton Court.”

“As councillor emeritus.”

“Quite so. In fact, that may be why God has seen fit to bring you here. The King is the same man he always was; he’s only channeled his energies into intrigue and deceit rather than outright violence. You and I are the only ones who know the cruelty lurking beneath the surface and we’re the only ones who can guard him from falling into disaster – and although God healed me of my afflictions I fear He did not make me immortal. I assume he grew worse over time?”

“Much worse, Eminence. The past few years…” but she didn’t want to think of that. “Tell me about France, if you will.”

He took a deep breath. “The story begins in October of 1514, sir, when your aunt Mary was sent to Paris to marry Louis XII. He died on New Year’s Day, she went into seclusion, and in this world she proved with child. Your father sent the Duke of Suffolk to look after your aunt’s interests but once her pregnancy was confirmed he returned without her, bringing with him most of your aunt’s English ladies – all but the Boleyn sisters. They remained with Her Majesty during her pregnancy and confinement, remaining even after François, the regent at the time, took her son away.”

“And then I was born.”

“And then you were born. That summer your father sent me to Paris to negotiate your betrothal. Five years later Prince Edward was born, your mother died, and the next summer Renée arrived in England with the Boleyns. Your aunt asked to return to England at the same time but the new regent, Marguerite, refused to let her leave.”

“Marguerite – she’s a reformer, isn’t she?”

“A dyed-in-the-wool Lutheran, Highness, and the true root of our ills in both worlds. In the old world she befriended Anne Boleyn and acted as something of a muse to her; in this one she raised Louis in the new faith and mistreated your aunt terribly. She starved her, left her to rot in rags – it’s a dreadful tale.”

 _Just as my father mistreated my mother,_ she thought, her gaze alighting on the Castle looming over the orchard. “And somehow my marriage is tied up in this?”

He paused. “Have you ever heard of the treatise _Il Principe_ , sir?”

“Machiavelli’s satire? I’ve read it, yes.”

“Your father thinks it’s an instruction manual. He asked for Renée to be sent here at twelve, ostensibly to ensure she would be educated as befits a Queen of England...”

“…but he’d hoped to marry her himself.”

Wolsey sent her an approving smile. “That was indeed his plan, at least until he caught sight of Mistress Boleyn. The moment he did he ennobled her brother as Earl of Rochford, had Garter King of Arms permit her the style of an earl’s daughter, and declared his intentions – and as in our world she was unable to say no. You and Renée were married eight years later on your fourteenth birthday, although you were still naturally too young to be a true husband to her; unfortunately by the time you were old enough Louis had taken personal control of France and diplomatic relations between the realms had soured, and your father ordered you not to consummate the marriage. The advantage of hindsight led me to counsel you and Renée to obey him in all things with a smile; he in turn has treated you both with respect and kindness.”

“Unlike his treatment of my mother.”

“He prizes obedience to his will above everything, sir, even above obedience to God; if only he didn’t expect miracles as a matter of course.”

They followed the path around a stand of gorse back to the apple trees. “Did he banish Renée?”

His brows flew up. “Banish – I assure you, sir, the Princess has been afforded every courtesy. In fact she’s currently in residence at Hampton Court as my guest, and although she and you are not allowed to meet unchaperoned she has the right to travel wherever she wishes as long as she remains in the realm. She’s an utterly charming woman, by the way; you like her very much, and she you.” He paused, his tone suddenly grim. “There is something else. Two years ago your father sent Archbishop Fisher to Rome to petition for an annulment of the marriage due to non-consummation.”

“But…he couldn’t…” She dropped onto the nearest bench with a thud. “God forbid: my very own Great Matter.”

He sat beside her. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she murmured. “You’re right; he hasn’t changed. If he were Roman he would have deified himself by now. Annulment…after eight years…”

“The tale he spun to Fisher and Pope Paul was that Your Highness found the Princess’s connection to an unfilial son ‘repulsive’ and you could therefore not…accommodate yourself to…” He waved a hand. “At any rate, the story was intended to coerce Louis into releasing your aunt as a show of good faith. Not only did it fail but it also put the Pope in a bind; your father is one of his strongest supporters but he was worried that the dissolution of a prominent Catholic marriage would stink in the nose of Louis’s heir, the Duc de Vendôme. The Duke is…undecided on the topic of religion, shall we say, and not the brightest of men."

"Then Louis executed my aunt. Did Father truly mourn, or did he merely pretend?"

He sighed again. “I will mourn William for the rest of my life, Mary, but if God felt it necessary to take him I’m truly glad He sent you in his place. When news arrived of your blessed aunt’s execution your father put on the finest show of rage and tears and heart-rending, desolate grief one could imagine. It was a masterpiece of masque not seen since the time of Roscius, especially since he found time that very same day to send a messenger to Fisher in Rome ordering him to withdraw the petition for annulment.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Then – whilst William was making plans for war – he assembled a group of scholars who were pleased to advance the startling theory that France was not true Salic land and therefore the succession of the throne of France should not be subject to Salic law. Given that Princess Claude died in this world without leaving an heir…”

“Renée would be the heir and eventually Queen in her own right. How elegantly convenient; is it true?”

“Does it matter?” he rejoined. “The point is that with Renée as Queen Regnant and you as King Consort your eventual son would eventually inherit both England and what will be left remaining of France after the allies tear it to bits. The Emperor might very well approve the plan; Louis is married but childless, Vendôme is, as I said, an idiot, and Renée is as devout a Catholic as Queen Anne…although her fertility might be of concern.”

“It shouldn’t be; she has five children in our world.”

“Thank God,” he breathed. “We can never tell anyone, of course, but it does bode well. Now we only have to ascertain if you are cap—” And he suddenly fell silent.

Capable of siring children, she assumed he meant. “I take it I have no bastards?”

“Nary a one, sir,” he replied, his face turning purple for some reason. “In some ways it’s perhaps fortunate you’re now…at any rate, I believe the Queen mentioned she wished to leave by two; if Your Highness has no further questions?”

She examined his face, wondering what he’d intended to say, but he refused to meet her gaze. “Not a question,” she finally said as they made their way back, “but a request. I’d like to endow a chantry chapel for William’s soul. Can it be done without his name attached?”

He pondered the matter for a moment. “There’s nothing in canon law that would forbid it – and it would be a most Christian act on your part. I’ll make the arrangements if you wish.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your father sent Sir Francis Weston to Hampton Court to ask me which physician had cared for me ten years ago. I was suspicious as soon as he said your memory was patchy and unreliable and you’d cried out for Princess Mary rather than Queen Mary; when I saw that you still carried yourself as a woman I knew I was right.” He lowered his voice as they neared the gate, where Will Cromwell and her guards were waiting for them. “You might wish to rectify that, sir; women are trained to take up as little space as possible but men spread out.”

As if she didn’t have enough to worry about. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They returned to the guest lodge to find Anne and her ladies sewing shirts. “I pray Your Highness and Your Eminence have finally come to an agreement over those apricots,” she said to Mary as she and Wolsey bowed to her. “Or are you fighting over grapes by now?”

She feigned laughter. “Cherries, my lady mother: sour for cooking, or sweet for eating out of hand?”

“I heartily beg you plant every variety of fruit imaginable at once or desist from involving me in the decision,” she replied with a fond smile. “Lady Langley, if you would be so kind as to advise your lord husband and Prior Lambert of our departure?”

Mary Norris curtseyed. “Yes, Majesty.”

“Father Prior says we should be able to reach Faversham by sunset,” Anne continued, taking Mary aside. “If we run behind we’ll break our trip at Canterbury. Was His Eminence able to set your mind at rest regarding the, um, gardens at Ludlow?”

“Indeed he did, Majesty. I believe my orchards will be fully reborn by this time next year.”

Her smile widened as she caught the allusion. “Reborn, you say? Then I wish you the very best of luck.”

They didn’t have to wait long for the grooms to bring out their horses again. Mary, once again waving away their help, grasped the reins with her good hand and swung herself up into the saddle by brute force, steeling her face not to show the pain boring into her shoulder. A woman or an older man could ask for assistance mounting a horse without anyone thinking much of it but a young man was granted far less lenience; injured or not he would be judged, and harshly, for allowing anyone to help him. She bit her lip at the memory of her fat, hobbled old father being lifted onto the enormous destrier that was the only beast strong enough to hold him. How he’d resented looking like a senile dotard; how he’d resented the utter humiliation of it all.

_In this world he could fly up ladders._

_A million of his subjects are dead._

And that, not what Wolsey had told her of Renée or her father or Anne or even herself, was what tormented her all the way to Canterbury. Signs of the pestilence were everywhere now that she knew to look for them; villages abandoned, churches and manor houses rotting in the fields, the best land in England enclosed and turned into pasture. “I suddenly recall the Great Pestilence,” she said to Francis as they passed what had once been Lydden. “A million souls? It can’t be true, can it?”

“I wish it were not, sir,” he replied. “Had it not been for the Queen’s charity I fear even more would have been lost.”

A million men and women taken to Heaven: one-third of the realm’s farmers, soldiers, courtiers, merchants, housewives, priests, children…how the survivors hadn’t gone mad with grief she didn’t know. She briefly wondered how much of her father’s transformation had been due to fear of God’s judgment – or had it been Charles Brandon’s death that had changed him? What would it be like to witness your closest friend decapitated without warning, to have his head land almost in your lap…they said Father had never again appeared in the lists after that horrible day, and no wonder.

Queen Anne rode first, only the advance guards, the herald, and her Chamberlain, Henry Norris, preceding her; as Mary followed her movements she thought back to Wolsey’s comments. It was a deeply unsettling thought; if Anne hadn’t wanted to be Queen she might not have been possessed by Satan, might not have placed a spell on her father, might not even have been a willing bride. What would that—

“Sir?”

She blinked back the tears threatening to spill over. “I’m mourning the dead, Sir Francis,” she said – and she was, for if Anne hadn’t been possessed, if she hadn’t seduced Father, if she hadn’t schemed her way onto the throne, her only ‘crime’ had been her loose tongue. Why, then, had he killed her?

 _Because she’d disobeyed him by not giving him a son_ , her inner voice said.

As Wolsey had said, if only he didn’t expect miracles as a matter of course.

Her eyes returned to Francis’s face. There was something about him she couldn’t find words to describe, something that made her glad he was alive and by her side. She remembered Chapuys telling her once that he could find no reason why he had been chosen to die with the Boleyns. Brereton had made an enemy of Cromwell, he’d said, while Smeaton had antagonized everyone at court by employing liveried servants despite being a servant himself. Henry Norris Anne had unwittingly sent to the headsman by accusing him of looking for dead man’s shoes, and George Boleyn had died only because he was Anne’s brother. But there hadn’t been any gossip whatsoever regarding Weston. Chapuys had suggested he’d debauched the wrong woman or perhaps knew something about Jane Seymour which, in his words, ‘did not reflect a kindly light on her honour’, but even that was too much of a wild guess for Mary to take seriously.

She smiled faintly at the memory of Chapuys’s unbounded cynicism. He’d been certain Jane hadn’t come to her father a virgin and perhaps he’d been right; from what Sir Henry had said she’d certainly been no maid in this world. It hurt to think of Jane as a wanton but perhaps the Great Pestilence had twisted her mind. To live in a world suddenly transformed by oceans of death…

A million dead – and two million left scarred for life.

They were about two miles south of Canterbury when the wind shifted and freshened. “I suggest we take shelter at the Abbey, Your Majesty, before the storm breaks,” Norris cried over his shoulder.

“Then send a man to Abbot Dygon and Mother Philippa at St. Sepulchre’s,” she said, raising her voice to be heard as the breeze whipped the banners above their heads into a frenzy. “My ladies and I will stay with her this evening.”

“Very good, Majesty.”

Large abbeys on major roads tended to expect unexpected visitors but even so Mary knew both abbey and convent would be strained to their limits by their company of thirty men and nine women. The only saving grace was that most of the servants had been sent ahead with the baggage carts; still, it was unlikely they’d sup as well as they’d dined. She reined her horse in and joined her brothers and Will Stafford, the young Duke of Buckingham, who had been trading jokes with some of the older members of the company earlier. “I want to talk to you three,” she said, ignoring their lowering frowns. “St. Augustine’s isn’t getting much warning of our arrival so we likely won’t receive the same level of hospitality here that we did at Dover. If that’s the case I don’t want a single gripe or eyeroll out of any of you.”

“Yes, brother,” Edmund replied dully. “I promise we’ll be on our best behaviour.”

“I pray so, for when we stopped here on our way to Dover you acted like a gang of squalling brats. The only reason no one noticed is that they had their eyes trained on our lord father.”

“And on you,” Charles pointed out.

“Only because I was carried in a litter. The King is the sun and the moon; while he is away we must carry ourselves with princely grace and not sully his reputation or our own by foolish talk or actions. That goes doubly for Your Grace,” she said to Buckingham, “as you are your own master and any disrespect your actions engender is yours alone to bear.”

His lips thinned but he nodded, knowing she was right. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“See that you do.”

She returned to Francis’s side just as they reached St. Sepulchre’s. “I pray Your Highness and your gentlemen not dismount,” Anne said to her as the convent servants brought out the blocks. “Shall we meet here tomorrow morning at eight?”

“At eight, then, Majesty.” She bowed as best she could from her saddle, the men following her example.

Once the gates had closed behind Anne and her ladies, she directed the Queen’s guards to remain behind and led the rest of the company up Oaten Hill toward the Abbey. It still seemed odd to be a member of a company of men, odder still to be at their head. _You will be King of England one day_ , her inner voice suddenly reminded her. _Unless God calls you home before your father you will one day lead far more than a mere handful of riders._

The first drops of rain began to fall as Abbot Dygon greeted them at the Great Gate. “Your Highness, Your Graces; welcome back to St. Augustine’s.”

She returned his courtly bow with a dip of her head. “I thank you for hosting us, Father Abbot. I know we’ve given you scant notice…”

But he shook his head. “In truth I half-expected Your Highness to break your journey here. Your baggage carts went through about ten o’clock this morning, and your chamberlain said you were to pass through in the late afternoon. May I show you to your room?”

They climbed the steep stairs to the State Bedchamber where hot water and soap had been put out for them. “With your permission, Highness, I will arrange for your supper to be served in my private dining chamber,” the abbot said as a bolt of lightning illuminated the room. “Your attendants will be served in the refectory.”

“That would be more than satisfactory. Will you be so kind as to join us at table – and ask Father More to join us as well?”

His face lit up. “With pleasure, sir.”

He left them to change out of their dusty clothes and wash and for Mary to have her arm removed from its sling again and flexed, this time by Dr. Wendy. “Any pain this afternoon, Your Highness?” he asked as he examined the lingering remnants of the bruise.

“Some, although not enough to interrupt my thoughts.”

The corners of his mouth turned down. “In a way I grieve that Your Highness’s memories of the Great Pestilence have returned. There isn’t an Englishman alive who would mind forgetting those dark days.” He extended her arm to the side. “Your lord father the King wishes you to see Dr. Phipps again once we return to London; shall I arrange for him to be in attendance on Friday?”

“Please do. Is this Phipps a specialist in injuries to the head?”

He flexed her elbow downward. “Not precisely, sir, but he did train at Louvain and Montpellier and studied under the great Johann Winter. Your Highness could do worse than to appoint him to your household – if he’s willing, of course.”

They both turned their heads as Charles and young Buckingham began to trade friendly punches. “Have a care, gentlemen,” she said in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “This is a monastery and a haven of peace; save your strength for the tiltyard.”

“Yes, brother,” Charles replied as Will Stafford’s face flushed.

 _Boys_ , she thought, returning Wendy’s amused smile.

The abbot’s dining chamber was comfortable and brightly lit but so plainly decorated even an arch-reformer would find it respectable. “Thank you again for your kind hospitality, Father Abbot,” she said, taking her seat and motioning for her companions to join her. “I understand you’ve just returned from Westminster. Did you detect any resistance on the part of the Lords Spiritual to the clerical taxes?”

“Not in the least, sir,” he replied. “Under the circumstances the Church is quite pleased to pay its share. I did hear some murmuring among the Lords Temporal, however; many of them remain unconvinced of the need for the parliamentary grant. Despite that they seem as certain as anyone that England and its allies will prevail.”

She suspected the lords temporal would tell a starkly different story. “When we do win,” she said aloud, “I warrant they’ll be the first in line for the spoils, hands out.”

“I have no doubt of that, Highness. I would think…” but his voice trailed away as the food arrived. “You will forgive us for the simplicity of our table—”

“Don’t apologize,” Mary said, breathing in the heavenly scent of roast pork, fowl _en fricassée_ , and stewed peaches. “We would have been pleased to be served pottage and maslin bread – wouldn’t we, Edmund?”

Her brother nodded eagerly. “Although we could never be insulted by this; everything smells wonderful.”

And to that no man at table could make an objection.

The food deemed fit by the tasters, Dygon pronounced the blessing and they began to eat, a servant cutting Mary’s meat for her. “Father More was telling me yesterday about this Picard, this Jean Cauvin,” she said to the abbot, looking down the table as she speared a chunk of pork. “What was it again, Father? Has he taken over Paris or all of France?”

“Fortunately only Paris at the moment, Highness,” More said, “although his ambitions are likely unbounded. I don’t think he’s as dangerous as the King but he does pose a threat should Louis take refuge in the city. We can only hope the Emperor’s forces are on French soil as we speak and have already drawn him eastward.”

“So the strike is not coordinated?” the abbot asked.

“Coordinated, yes,” Mary said, “just not concurrent. If we and the Emperor and the Duke of Savoy and the Spanish and the Holy Father were to invade all at the same time Louis naturally would retrench himself and his forces around Paris; as such he’ll be drawn every which way.”

“The time of year makes this essential,” More added. “The harvest occurs at different times in France depending on the predominant crop and the latitude, and the Allies have coordinated the attacks to take advantage of this. Most of the French troops are farmers—”

“As are ours,” the abbot pointed out. “Are they not risking both their livelihoods and the food supply of this realm?”

He shook his head. “The grain harvest is all but complete even in the south; what is left can be handled by the men who remain behind. The advantage of surprise…”

Mary listened in silence as Dygon and More continued the debate throughout the meal. The abbot took the position that, although an autumn attack might have been a ‘regrettable necessity’ in this case, it was otherwise far too great a hardship on both the soldiers and those left behind, while More argued that only the most extreme weather – storms in the Channel, snow, extreme heat – needed to be taken into consideration. But neither of them touched the difficulty of feeding armies in the field. Dygon had the right of it for the most part, though; only a fool would take troops into battle in October unless it was truly necessary – and neither the Emperor nor her father were fools.

Why, then, had they chosen to fight this late in the year? Was it simple greed, concern about Vendôme’s loyalty, or something else? She would have participated in the debate but they’d never pay attention to…but that was wrong: she was a man now. They wouldn’t patiently wait for her mouth to stop moving before continuing as if she’d never spoke; they would actually listen to her and respect her opinion even if they disagreed. If anyone had ever done that in her world…

 _Stop that_ , she told herself as her server refilled her cup. _This is your world now and you aren’t going back; Wolsey is proof of that._

The two of them might have argued the matter until dawn if Mary hadn’t interrupted them with a strategic muffled yawn. “Forgive me, Father Abbot,” she said as she stretched. “It’s been a long day.”

“One I fear made even longer, sir, by our disputation. Would you say the _In Fine_ , Father More?”

Mary let the Latin words wash over her, made the expected responses, lifted her mind to God while remaining careful of her language. Not that a single _mea_ in place of a _meo_ would by itself raise suspicion; what had happened to her was so unimaginable that anyone who noticed would only think her tired or distracted. Too many mistakes, though, and they might consider her mad.

Perhaps she was.

It wasn’t until later that night after she’d made penance, heard Compline, and turned in for the night that she had a quiet moment to reflect. The most puzzling thing she’d learned that day wasn’t that she was married to Renée of France; that she’d half-expected. No, what confused her was why Father hadn’t wanted her to know about it – and why he hadn’t ordered William to consummate the marriage before he left for France.

She eased herself gently onto her back, wincing at the pain still coursing through her arm, and stared up in the dark at the canopy of estate draped over the bed she and Charles shared that night. She could understand Father’s earlier reluctance to have the marriage perfected; Renée’s value on the marriage market had likely sunk like a stone once her brother took control of France on his sixteenth birthday, and if Father had thought to find his eldest son a more politically useful bride it would have been reasonable to order him not to bed Renée right away. But that excuse had crumbled when he began to scheme at making her Queen of France in her own right; the moment the crown touched her head – if it ever did – she would be legally able to deny William her bed and could even petition the Pope for annulment herself. No, Father would have been a fool not to ensure the marriage was consummated before he set sail for France – and yet he had. Clearly she was still missing a critical piece of the puzzle.

If only she were still missing a piece of Anne’s.

For more than seven years she’d cast Anne as the ultimate evildoer. She’d hated her – loathed her, even – and carried in her heart the knowledge that she was ultimately responsible for every beating, every slap, every pinch, every humiliation, every moment of suffering she’d endured at Hatfield. She’d been so stubborn in that belief that she’d even spurned Anne’s attempt to make amends after her death, only pretending to politely listen to the apology Lady Kingston had been kind enough to relay. She’d assumed it was nothing more than a shameless attempt to convince Father of her innocence – for of course every word said by her in the Tower would have been passed on to him – and thereby continue her devilish reign. But if Anne hadn’t been a witch…

She let out a snort. S _top fooling yourself; Anne might not have been an angel but she was no devil either, and if your father hadn’t wanted you abused he would have put a stop to it. She was afraid of you, afraid of what your existence meant to her daughter’s chances of succeeding. She was so certain you would be her death that she never noticed the real enemy standing by her side…just as you were so certain she would be yours that you failed to see him too. Father played the two of you against each other like a maestro and then destroyed you both – Anne with the sword, you with the oath._

If that wasn’t the bitterest fruit she’d ever forced herself to swallow she didn’t know what was.

_You bastard._

“Which bastard is that, Will?”

She almost jumped out of her skin; had she said that out loud? “Who do you think?” she whispered to Charles, throwing caution to the wind. “Who’s the one man who’s let me down the most?”

“Tom Culpeper,” he snorted. “Lustful brute who didn’t give half a shit about your reputation.”

That she wasn’t expecting. “My…”

“If a lord won’t protect his tenants from rampaging gentry they’ll find a new master who will; you’re the one who taught me that.” He rolled on his side to face her. “Even Father thinks you were right to surrender Culpeper to the sheriff and, if you don’t remember, he was the one who placed him in your household. That should tell you something.”

“I suppose it does,” she replied, not bothering to add that it mainly proved her father wasn’t a very good judge of men – as if she’d needed further corroboration of that.

 _And William was a terrible judge of women,_ she added silently as she closed her eyes, thinking of Kathryn Howard. The bitch’s very existence had flown from her mind the moment Wolsey called her ‘Mary’. The very fact that he’d known…the very fact that he’d been brought here…

Were they the only ones, she wondered? Had Thomas More or Anne – but no, she didn’t think so. Anyone who had been through the shock of being brought to an entirely different world would recognize the symptoms and do their best to help. But Anne had been busy if kind and More—

—and there was something else she didn’t understand, for her mind had one opinion of Thomas More but her heart – William’s heart, beating in her chest – had another.

In fact, William’s heart had opinions about nearly everyone at court, opinions that often clashed with her own. It thought Father a devious, dishonourable snake, it deemed Thomas More brilliant but unreliable, it was repulsed by her supposed ‘bosom friend’ Henry Brandon, and it saw Stephen Gardiner, who they’d met at Westminster on the way down, as wholly self-serving. But it trusted Cardinal Wolsey implicitly, thought the world of Francis Weston, would have followed Edmund and Charles to the ends of the earth, and loved and trusted Anne Boleyn as if she were William’s own mother – and from everything she’d seen she couldn’t deny that trust was well-founded.

It would have been easier if she could have pushed aside the dissonance. It would have been easier if Anne were the termagant Chapuys had described or the pathetic snivelling wreck Lady Kingston had watched over in the Tower. But Anne was kind and generous and thoughtful and loving, and Mary was simply unable to hate her; better put, William’s heart wouldn’t let her.

Wolsey had clearly thought William no fool. Perhaps she should trust his judgment; perhaps she should trust his heart.


	5. The Bend of the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're surprised I finished this danged chapter, that makes two of us.

23 September 1540  
River Thames

  
The setting sun peeked through the trees, dappling the Bishop of Rochester’s barge in golden light as the vessel swept around a bend in the river. It had been ten hours since they’d departed Canterbury, almost nine since a royal messenger had caught up with them outside of Faversham with news of ambassadors and ‘urgent letters’ arrived that day from Spain and the Low Countries. Unfortunately there hadn’t been more than a dozen horses at the post-house at Sittingbourne so Queen Anne and Mary – or Prince William, as she was known in the new and unfamiliar world she’d been sucked into – had been forced to leave her brothers Edmund and Charles and the balance of their party behind, taking only one attendant each and a skeleton crew of guards with them on their mad dash to Gravesend.

Mary shifted in the corner seat, her aching right arm nestled on a pile of cushions as she re-read Lord Russell’s letter in the dim late afternoon light. The Imperial ambassadors were, he’d written, a mismatched pair: the senior was a battle-scarred, one-eyed Castilian soldier, while the junior was a sybaritic priest barely capable of putting down his lute. “Your Majesty,” she asked, looking up, “are you familiar with a cleric by the name of Philippe Maioris?”

Anne laid aside her sewing. “The Dean of Cambrai? I knew him when I was a girl – but don’t stand on ceremony with me, Will; I’m ‘Mother’ to you, not ‘Majesty’.”

“Mother,” she repeated, but no matter what Will’s heart told her the word still tasted bitter in her mouth. “I only ask because he’s one of the ambassadors; he arrived from Burgundy yesterday with the Duke of Albuquerque. I’m not sure why Lord Russell felt the need to impress on me that the Duke is a favourite of the Empress.”

“Perhaps he remembers Your Highness’s close friendship with Her Imperial Majesty,” Francis Weston suggested. “You do correspond regularly.”

“Almost weekly, in fact,” Anne said. “Who else intends to make the trip?”

She thumbed awkwardly through the sheets as Francis rose to light the lamps. “He doesn’t give every name,” she finally said, “but he does mention the Duke of Norfolk, other ‘diverse members’ of the Privy Council, my Lady Sussex—”

Lady Langley tsked under her breath.

“—and a Master Vancouver,” Mary finished, darting a look up. “Vancouver? The name’s not familiar.”

“Pieter Van Coevorden, sir,” Francis said.

Her jaw dropped to the cabin floor. Eustache Chapuys’s valet!

“Meneer is Your Highness’s senior groom of the wardrobe,” he added. “He joined your household after his former master the Archbishop of Cambrai returned to the continent this spring.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “The archbishop didn’t ‘return’, Francis; he was expelled from the realm. Will, I can assure you that no matter what your father might have said about Pieter he’s more than worthy of your confidence. The Archduchess Margaret trusted him implicitly; out of all the servants at Mechelen she chose him to chaperone her maids of honour.” She held out her hand. “Might I?”

“Of course; we are co-regents, after all.”

She handed the letter to Anne, giving silent thanks to God that one thing in this world had finally gone right. Pieter Van Coevorden had indeed been Chapuys’s valet but his talents had gone far beyond brushing doublets and mending hose; spy, cryptographer, polyglot, and factotum, he’d managed to smuggle her Protestation Apart out of the country under the noses of the customs officials and had even foiled Cromwell’s abortive plot to have her kidnapped, violated, and sent to the Tower for ‘lechery’. Pieter was a man of sterling value; she only hoped William had been his only paymaster in this world. A man of such talents could, after all, serve more than one prince.

Anne’s silvery voice broke into her thoughts. “This might be the grandest episcopal barge I’ve ever ridden in. Lamps, padded seats, high ceilings – there’s even a fully stocked desk in the rear corner. I had no idea Bishop Bonner was so diligent as to feel the need to write letters in transit.”

“Nor did I,” she admitted, thinking of the lazy, self-serving weasel who in her world had betrayed more than one patron to save his own skin. “Perhaps it dates to Archbishop Fisher’s tenure in Rochester.”

She’d half-expected Anne to flinch at the name but she merely nodded. “It very well might. John is the best and most useful of men, isn’t he?”

_John?!_

“I miss him, Will,” she continued over Mary’s quickly stifled gasp. “I know he’s needed in Rome but I still wish he was here to guide you through this; without his good counsel I might very well have gone mad after the Great Pestilence. I lost three children – four including the child I was carrying – my mother, my sister, most of my friends…do you remember Jane Parker? She once told me she used to carry you around on her shoulders when you were a little boy.”

Her heart sank. “I’d wanted to ask after her.”

“And yet you haven’t,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Sir Francis, Lady Langley, would you be so kind as to ask the head bargeman when he expects us to arrive at Greenwich?”

“Yes, madam,” they chorused, taking the hint.

Anne waited until the cabin door was firmly shut to reach over and clasp her hand. “So why aren’t you asking?”

Her patience evaporated in a flash of rage. “How can I when no one is allowed to answer?” she snapped. “Francis can’t even tell me why we’re going to war in the autumn, let alone why I’m not supposed to know about Renée. Father doesn’t trust me to…” and she shook her head. “Does he think I’ll rise up against him?”

“Oh, Will, no!” Anne squeezed her hand tightly, the worried line between her eyes belying her soothing tone. “Your father is proud of you, fiercely proud; he strutted around like a cockerel for weeks after you laid the heads of the Wiltshire rebels at his feet. That said, he and you don’t always see eye to eye on certain…matters of honour, shall we say. Has anyone told you why you were originally chosen to lead the invasion?”

She frowned. “I assumed it was my age.”

“Your father might be nearing fifty but he’s still perfectly capable of donning a harness of armour,” she retorted. “It was the Emperor who demanded you be placed in command of the army. He considers you both a friend and a man of courage and honour, especially toward ladies; more to the point, he knows the Queen of France would be as safe in your hands as she would be in the Hofburg Palace. Queen Amalia is Empress Anna’s sister; you know them both from a visit you paid their father the Duke of Cleves when you were a boy.”

Cleves – but why… “I remember the Lady Anne very well, but not her sister,” she said, sending another prayer of thanks up to Heaven; her beloved friend was Holy Roman Empress! “Were Amalia and Louis married before he declared for Luther?”

“Before any public declaration, yes. As you might guess it isn’t a happy union; in fact, until July we had no evidence it had been consummated.”

Of course. “She’s with child.”

“And expected to deliver in the new year according to our spies, which is why the invasion was moved up to the autumn. Your lord father and the Emperor decided that if she births a daughter, mother and child would join the Imperial court and the Duc de Vendôme would be offered the throne; if a son, he would be crowned King and raised as a Catholic.”

And as the Emperor’s protégé, no doubt. “So Father’s given up on his plans to make Renée Queen of France in her own right?” she asked aloud. “Wolsey seems to think he still intends to do it.”

Anne’s gaze shifted to the window. “I couldn’t say for certain…”

But Mary could: in a flash of insight she understood what her father was planning, understood why she’d been kept in the dark as well. Father was up to his old tricks.  
  
Her mind travelled back to the visit Lady Kingston had paid her at Hunsdon House four years earlier. The Tower constable’s wife had ostensibly come to relay Anne Boleyn’s deathbed apology but she’d also mentioned – in passing, or so she’d assumed at the time – that the King had forbidden his discarded concubine the services of a physician, writing that her nausea and exhaustion would ‘soon receive a sovereign cure by way of the Sword of Calais’. The good lady’s warning couldn’t have been clearer in the mouth of a herald yet Mary, more naïve and foolish than a princess had any right to be, hadn’t understood: Father, convinced Anne would never give him a son, had killed his pregnant wife before she could present him with another worthless, useless daughter – and if he could kill an unborn daughter who’d never defied him he wouldn’t hesitate to execute a born one who had.

Father had it in him to kill a pregnant woman and send an unborn child to Hell with no chance of redemption, and if he could do it in that world he could do it in this one; as Wolsey had said, he was still the same man.

“So what were my orders?” she asked Anne through tightly pursed lips. “Was I to administer the _coup de grace_ personally?”

“The _coup de_ —” Anne gasped, her eyes wide with hope. “Oh, Will; you remember!”

“I wish I did; I only remember how headstrong my lord father can be in pursuit of what he thinks is right. But was that the plan? Was I to be the French Queen’s executioner?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t hear of it. You considered it deeply dishonourable and washed your hands of the matter.”

Which was why she’d been drugged with poppy syrup for ten days and kept in the dark about Renée, Wolsey, and Pieter. Her father had wanted to keep Will away from anyone who might have connections on the continent lest his memory return and he raise the alarum. What a stroke of luck her accident must have been! In an instant, in a slip of a horse’s hoof, the main stumbling block to his egregious plan, the plan he couldn’t see was destined to fail, had been removed. “And what does Kathryn Howard have to do with any of this?” she asked, taking a calculated risk.

“Nothing that I know of— Kathryn? My little cousin, Lady Kathryn? Why would you ask about her?”

Hesitantly and with no little embarrassment Mary told her what had happened on the night of the accident, Anne’s eyes growing wider with every detail. “She threw herself on me, crying and wailing and calling me ‘darling’,” she finished. “Since then I haven’t seen her and I haven’t had a chance to ask. I can only assume…”

“Oh, Will, you must have been so confused,” Anne said, clasping her hand again. “I can assure you the Lady Kathryn is most definitely not your mistress. Uncle Norfolk has spent the last twelve years scheming to betroth her to one of your brothers; he’d hardly let you take her to bed even if you were the type, never mind that she’s my cousin and barely sixteen.”

Sixteen?! She hadn’t realized— “Then why did she barge into my bedchamber?”

“If I knew, my darling son, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you.” She rose and bent over, kissing a surprised Mary on the forehead. “That said, I distinctly remember Dr. Wendy ordering you to rest this evening, so if you don’t mind I’ll take the opportunity to write George’s wife the Duchess. This is her fourth confinement; I only pray she has a happier outcome than last time. Promise you’ll try to sleep?”

Only through sheer force of will was she able to stop herself from wiping off the residue of her kiss. “I promise, Maj-Mother.”

Once she was alone Mary pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders, her eyes on the cabin window beside her as the scratch of quill on paper told her Anne had by some miracle found fresh ink in Edmund Bonner’s desk. It was by then fully dark outside, so dark that nothing disrupted her reflection – Will’s reflection – other than the odd glimmer of light bouncing off the water. _A night as black as my father’s heart_ , she mused; _a night as murky and dank as his soul._

She didn’t disagree in theory with his plan to subvert the French line of succession; every loyal Englishman thirsted to see St. George’s cross flying high above the Louvre, after all, and Mary was certainly no exception. But killing a pregnant woman or even a newborn child were acts so nefarious and so hypocritical under the circumstances that no prudent prince could think them reasonable; Christendom would recoil in horror from the act just as it had from her aunt’s murder, and England, her father, and the holy Catholic Church would suffer a black eye no man could hope to heal.

Queen for queen: a solution so short-sighted only her father could have invented it – and he never would have had the chance to set it in motion had Will not fallen in the tiltyard two weeks ago.

Oh, Father might have sent one of his cronies to France anyway – Francis Bryan if he were still alive, perhaps Tom Seymour – but Will could have countermanded his order as commander in the field. Mary’s hands were however tied; were she to send word of her father’s plans to the Emperor she would be guilty of treason, and although she’d prefer to imagine her cousin a shining beacon of knightly virtue she knew better than anyone how ruthlessly practical Charles Habsburg could be. He might lament his sister-in-law’s fate if only to distance himself from England’s shame but he’d grasp at the opportunity to promote himself as a true Catholic monarch, and any real grief would, she feared, be not for Amalia or her child but for the end of his hopes to control France through an infant nephew.

He’d worn mourning for three months after her mother’s death; a week later he’d told Chapuys to make peace with Anne Boleyn.

But the fact remained that none of it would have happened if Will were still here. Why, then, had God taken him, and why had He replaced him with Mary? What plans did God harbour that required an innocent, pregnant Queen of France to fall to an assassin’s blade and England’s reputation as a Christian realm destroyed? Perhaps He knew His business, as the priests claimed, but Mary would have given a great deal at the moment to know what that business was.

She shut her eyes tightly as if to block out the dread brewing in her belly. If Will were here, if she were not…

_  
She closed the kitchen door behind her and tiptoed gingerly down the stairs, the thick morning fog swallowing her up as she made her way toward the blackcurrant bushes at the far end of Hatfield’s garden. Lady Shelton’s voice had been as sharp as the stinging slap the old bitch had administered to her cheek a few moments ago; the_ Lady _Mary, bastard daughter of the King, was to perform the most menial tasks Hatfield could afford her until she ‘learned her place’ – in other words, until she accepted the monstrous, self-serving lie that had brought her here._

Princess _Mary snorted; it would take much more than being awoken at six to pick fruit to goad her into denying God’s truth._

_The fog lifted as she passed through the gate but instead of in the orchard she found herself at the head of a long curving pathway flanked by two privet hedges, the right one lush and green, the left a forbidding tangle of dead, fire-blackened branches. “Is someone there?” she called out, her voice echoing around the corner of the tall hedgerow._

_Nothing._

_Tentatively, her heart in her throat, she placed one foot on the path, then another, but her attention was soon drawn to a silver filigree jewel in the shape of a French Royale apple dangling from the living hedge to her right. She plucked it from where it had seemingly grown and tucked the delicate confection into the basket tied around her waist._

_The next bauble, a large lapis lazuli Burgundy plum, dangled high above her head just past the first curve. As she placed it in her basket she glanced at the thicket of dead branches to her left and caught sight of a two-headed buzzard peering at her through the twigs; with a shudder of disgust she averted her gaze._

_She continued down the winding path, keeping well clear of the terrifying thicket to her left, until she finally spotted a golden German quince studded with diamonds and rubies nestled in the crook of a leafy privet branch. It was the most precious jewel she’d ever seen, one she longed above all to carry close to her heart, but her hands refused to obey her wishes; into the basket it went with the rest of her harvest._

_The next, a sparkling Wiltshire garnet in the shape of an apricot, fairly leapt from the hedge just as the sun came out from behind a black cloud; she reached up but the moment it was in her hands it melted into oily, rancid slime that dribbled through her fingers and into the mud at her feet._

_She continued down the path, wiping her filthy hand on her skirt, but she wasn’t ten steps away when a flash of lightning rent the sky and the wind picked her up and carried her past the end of the path and into a magnificent rose garden, an enormous teardrop pearl materializing in her open palm as her feet touched the ground again._

_“They call it ‘La Peregrina’,” Will said as he leaned back against the trunk of an ancient oak. “It was discovered in Panama, in the New World.”_

_She looked up into his handsome face. “Is it mine?”_

_“It would have been, dearest sister, but now,” and his grin melted into a wistful frown, “but now you must harvest the other side of the path.”_

_“The other side? But I can’t,” she exclaimed, turning to glance over her shoulder. “It’s dead and full of monstrous beasts—”_

_But it was not._

_In the few short moments she’d been in the garden the hedges had both undergone a shocking transformation; the green privet she’d just harvested, the one that had been on her right, was now a tangled mess of blackened branches, but the thicket on the other side, the one she’d shrunk from in disgust, was now lush, verdant, and very much alive._

_Will’s voice came low to her ear. “The right side blooms for you, Mary, no matter which way you face.”_

_Without another word she re-entered the pathway and knelt before the first privet to her right, drawing aside the bright evergreen leaves to reveal a bouquet of rosebuds hiding within, a single lily among them. “Why didn’t you pick it yourself?” she asked him._

_He only shook his head. “My nature abhors both sides. Look.”_

_And both hedges had become chaotic, grotesque maelstroms of twisted vines populated by foul, slithering vermin._

_“You see through my eyes and live through my body,” his voice came from behind her, “but your soul and heart are your own – and may God keep you well.”_

_The roses suddenly burst into brilliant flower, filling her arms with enormous dewy red and white Tudor blossoms—_

  
—and her eyes fluttered open.

She stretched as best she could in the cramped cabin, the details of her bizarre dream a mad whirl in her mind. Golden and silver fruit, a garnet turning into slime, hedges greening and dying in an instant, a two-headed buzzard...and what had that been about a pearl? “La Peregrina,” she murmured.

“Your Highness?”

She glanced at Lady Langley, who’d taken Anne’s place. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said, gesturing for her to remain seated. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two hours at least, sir. The Queen is speaking with Master Bowden—”

“The sergeant of my private guard.”

“Yes, sir; she and Sir Francis should return presently.” Her brow creased in a momentary frown but then her eyes grew soft and her fingers snaked out to dance against the back of Mary’s good hand. “If Your Highness dreamt badly I’d be more than willing to interpret,” she purred, her voice growing warm and deep, “or to provide whichever other service you might desire this evening.”

Only by exerting the greatest self-control was she able to stop herself from jerking her hand back from Lady Shelton’s daughter. “I, um, thank you for your kind offer,” she said as she gently detached herself, “but in truth I was granted a most pleasant dream of – of gardening. I seem to remember that your husband, Lord Langley, used to enjoy my mother Queen Katherine’s private gardens when he was younger?”

Her face flushed a brilliant red. “I believe he may have been, sir, but—”

Just then Francis poked his head through the doorway. “We’re coming up on Greenwich, Your Highness,” he said, a crease forming between his eyes as his gaze flittered between Mary and Lady Langley. “The Queen has requested you attend on her.”

She pushed herself to her feet and followed him out just as someone on the shore raised the alarum and the oarsmen brought the barge to. It was an uncommonly warm night, so warm that not a tendril of mist rose from the glassy water. “I pray the King is enjoying as fine weather tonight as we are,” she said to the head bargeman.

He shot her a cocky grin. “Aye, Highness, and may that frog bastard be frozen up to his neck in mud.”

She couldn’t disagree with that sentiment.

Anne was waiting for her just behind the rowers, her eyes scanning the wharf. She considered mentioning Mary Norris’s strange advance…or was it that strange? Everyone knew that women were the more lustful sex; if she had been Will’s secret lover, if no one had known…

Pieter would know, she realized; what man could hide his peccadillos from his valet? She would have to make—

Anne’s low voice interrupted her thoughts. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I had any right to,” she replied, pasting a smile on her face as they stepped onto the deserted wharf. “I dreamt of – well, of picking fruit from a privet hedge.”

“Harvesting fruit is a symbol of recovery; I’m not surprised—”

But just then the palace doors burst open and a florid older man emerged, his chain of office hanging crooked off his shoulders in the faint light thrown by his attendant’s lamp. “Your Majesty, Your Highness: good evening!” he cried as he dropped into an awkward bow. “I must tender my most sincere apologies; Lord Russell told us to expect you no earlier than tomorrow night.”

“By now you should know not to underestimate us, Uncle James,” Anne said with a smile. “I take it the Imperial ambassadors are here?”

“Just arrived at dusk, madam, but I believe they’ve retired for the evening.”

“And the Princess Elizabeth?” Mary asked as they entered the palace.

He shook his head. “She retired some hours ago, Your Highness; it’s nearly ten o’clock.”

“So late!” Anne exclaimed. “Then we should follow Their Excellencies’ example. Please pass on the message that we will receive them at nine o’clock tomorrow – if the Prince is in agreement?”

“Perfectly, Majesty.”

“Mother, Will,” she reminded her with a fond grin. “Lady Sussex, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

Mary’s old friend Moll Arundell rose from her curtsey. “Your Majesty’s rooms await your arrival,” she said, her face falling as Lady Langley came into sight.

They bowed, not daring to rise until the ladies had disappeared up the stairs; Mary would have commented on the dagger-sharp glares being thrown behind Anne’s back by the Ladies Langley and Sussex but it seemed Francis had something else on his mind – but of course he would. “I’ll require your attendance later on,” she said to him, “but it occurs to me that they haven't had time to ready your rooms.”

“If my father’s at court I might not need him to,” he said, turning to the older man. “Is Lord Weston at Greenwich tonight, my Lord Marney?”

“In the Lord Treasurer’s apartments as usual, yes. I trust you know the way?”

“I do, my lord; thank you.”

He made his bows, leaving this Lord Marney to accompany Mary up the stairs to the gallery. She didn’t know where her apartments were – there were many stately suites at Greenwich but as far as she knew none had been built specifically for the Prince of Wales…

…and her breath stopped in her throat.

Mary was Prince of Wales, undisputed heir to the throne; she would be sovereign in the fullness of time unless God willed otherwise, and as such it was her duty to sire heirs. The very thought should curdle her blood, but even now the memory of her body’s unexpected base reaction to Mary Norris’s fingers brushing the back of her hand brought the blood rushing to her face. That men walked around with – with _that_ happening and never let on…

She swallowed, giving Marney a sidelong look as the herald at the top of the stairs boomed out her name and title. “Does Meneer Van Coevorden know I’ve arrived?”

“I sent two pages to him with orders to remain in attendance upon Your Highness until further notice. One can hardly speak ill of Master, er, Vancouver, but not even he can attend on Your Highness unassisted.”

“Especially since I’ll need a bath,” she said. “Not that I’m considering taking up the life of a sybarite—”

Marney chuckled.

“—but I doubt the Imperial ambassadors would be impressed if the co-Regent of England received them stinking of horse and mud.”

“If I may, Highness, I don’t think Father Maioris is a man to be impressed by much,” he said. “The Duke of Albuquerque has however asked repeatedly about the details of your victory at Devizes last year.”

Yet another worry to add to her ever-growing collection, she thought with a sigh. She’d have to figure out what exactly Will had been up to in Wiltshire – and when, and with whom – before she met with the Duke tomorrow.

Her rooms were located behind an unfamiliar set of double doors built into the north wall of the gallery, or at least that was where her guards led her. “You will no doubt have been advised that the Queen and I are co-regents,” she said to Marney at the threshold, “and as such any messages arriving in the night should be conveyed to both of us. I would however ask that I be notified first if news should arrive regarding – regarding any member of Her Majesty’s family. I would hardly wish my lady mother to receive ill tidings from the lips of a messenger.”

He nodded grimly at what she dare not put into words. “I will pass the message on, sir, although let us pray the precaution proves unnecessary.”

She dismissed him with thanks, passing between the sentries into a sumptuous sitting room where the most familiar face she’d seen in weeks was waiting for her. “Meneer, good evening.”

Pieter Van Coevorden dropped his prince the same respectful little bow he’d always offered her as princess. “Good evening, Highness. I trust your trip from Dover was uneventful?”

“I only wish it had been.” She bent slightly to allow him to lift her cloak and overgown off her shoulders; Pieter was a tall man but she must now top him by a good six inches. “You’ll have to discard most of my clothing, I’m afraid; we were forced to ride through a quagmire just east of Newington.”

“I’m sure most of it can be salvaged, sir. If Your Highness would be so kind as to sit?”

She all but fell into the chair by the fire and let him peel off her sodden boots. “His Grace of Rochester won’t thank us for the use of his barge,” she said. “We left it a filthy mess; I’ll have to give orders for it to be cleaned tomorrow. Do you know if he’s in attendance?”

“His Grace remains at Westminster, Highness.”

He carried her boots away, returning presently with clean hands and a tray bearing a flagon and goblet; she eagerly took the cup and drank deeply of the warmed, cinnamon-spiced wine. “Were you expecting me?” she asked. “Warmed wine, a hot fire – do I hope in vain for supper and a hot bath?”

“I had every expectation Your Highness and Her Majesty would arrive this evening,” he replied, “and to that effect I had the kitchens prepare a light supper, although I fear it may not reach the rarefied standards of royal dining. I also arranged for the fire under the hot water boiler to be lit.” He bent over, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “The Queen sent news of Your Highness’s unfortunate accident at Windsor and of the King’s orders for your recovery,” he added in French, glancing at the door before continuing. “I earlier received instructions from my Lord Audley to attend on Your Highness at Southampton; the Queen’s messenger overtook me west of London and I accordingly returned to Greenwich.”

So Father had tried to keep them apart! “I suppose we should be grateful my lord father the King only intended to separate us until he was in France and could carry out whatever scheme he’s planning without interference,” she replied. “I take it you still have contacts in Burgundy?”

“Contacts Your Highness makes use of regularly? Yes, sir.”

“And you work only for me?”

He met Mary’s gaze evenly, and if she could see bare honesty in those dark eyes she could also see a flicker of confusion and perhaps pain as well. “Only for you, Highness.”

She took pity on him. “Did the Queen tell you I was having issues with my memory?”

“Her Majesty did indeed mention that Your Highness was suffering from confusion,” he replied as his face cleared, “but I regret she did not mention memory loss.”

"She must have assumed I would recover; I only wish I had. I do remember some faces and names – yours, Sir Francis’s, my parents’ – but I otherwise have no memory of my life before I woke up in the courtyard, although I’d prefer that not be widely known. If I’m thought incompetent—” A noise from the corridor alerted her to the imminent arrival of her supper. “Should I know the grooms Marney sent up?” she whispered.

His eyes flickered again to the door. “Tom and Bartholomew are Father More’s grandchildren – Sir John’s boys, if Your Highness recalls him.”

At that she could only shake her head; she knew of John More – in fact, she’d secretly given alms for his support every month – but she’d never been privileged to meet the great martyr’s son. In her world John had sensibly buried his family in the wilds of Yorkshire…but here he was a knight and prosperous enough to send his sons to court.

His stepmother and a million of her fellow countrymen were dead.

Job’s words came to her: _The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord._

Her dining chamber was as magnificent as any prince could ask for; she sat under a finely embroidered canopy of estate with a groom on each side and Pieter behind her chair, and if the meal didn’t fulfill the promise of the décor she had no one to blame for that but King Louis. “I dare say our men in Calais would give a pretty penny for a supper this filling,” she said to the boy on her left once she’d disposed of the meagre pottage. “Still, I can’t help but envy them. What do the servants say about the war?”

The child’s face unexpectedly flushed a brilliant red. “Highness…I – I don’t…”

Why was he so nervous? “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she assured him. “I only wish to know what they’re saying below stairs. You must have heard something.”

“Master Thomas, the Prince asked you a question,” Pieter rumbled.

By then the boy was trembling like a leaf. “They say we’ll win ’cause God’s on our side,” he squeaked, “but they wish Your Highness was in France instead of the King. Cook says you’re no yellow-belly—” and the blood drained from his face as he realized what he’d just let slip out. “Highness, I didn’t mean – I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s all right, Tom,” she said in as bracing a tone as she could muster before the child fainted from sheer terror; the servants thought Father a coward! “I ordered you to tell me the truth and you obeyed, and for that I thank you. My lord father the King might expect otherwise, I know, but when I ask an honest question I expect an honest answer no matter how badly you think I’ll take the news. You’ve heard similar stories, Bartholomew?” she asked the other boy.

He nodded. “The keepers say you’d’ve put the frog six feet under by now.”

“The order of battle is already set, I’m afraid,” she told him. “If we engage French forces too early we could materially damage our chance of removing not just King Louis but his low, Godless advisors, men like Cauvin and Bucer. We want to meet Louis in the field, not with a city wall between us, right?”

“Because a siege kills too many innocent people?” Bartholomew asked.

Thomas More’s grandson he certainly was. “Sieges do indeed destroy far too many innocent lives, it’s true, but they also eat up gold, food, materiel, and the most irreplaceable asset of all: time. The sooner our men win, the sooner life can return to normal in England and the sooner the French people can be brought back to faith and obedience. Surely your grandfather’s told you of the importance of extirpating the Lutheran heresy.”

At that they stopped just short of rolling their eyes.

Clearly they’d endured enough lectures in their short lives, she thought as she finished her meal in companionable silence; once she’d bathed and been redressed in a fresh shirt, robe, and sling she took a seat behind the handsome Venetian desk tucked into a corner of her bedchamber, breathing a sigh of relief that her shoulder didn’t ache nearly as much as it had that afternoon. “Have I received any letters since you saw me last?” she asked Pieter. “I don’t see anything here.”

“Your correspondence is in the locked drawer on the right,” he said as he returned with a mud-encrusted leather bag. “The keys are in Your Highness’s purse. The Duke retrieved it from the tiltyard at Windsor after your…after the accident.”

“The Duke.”

“His Grace of Wiltshire.”

George Boleyn: another conundrum she hadn’t been able to sort out. William had trusted him implicitly, she knew that, but there was something else…nothing more than admiration, she prayed with all her might, but from what Wolsey and Anne had said—

She pushed that repulsive thought away for the moment and examined the bag Pieter had just placed before her. It was finely wrought of what had once been white kid, and although most of the mud had been knocked off in transit it clearly hadn’t been opened since it fell into the courtyard. “Why would I have had a purse with me in the tiltyard?” she mused aloud.

But Pieter had an answer even for that. “Your Highness prefers your keys remain either on your person or in the possession of a trusted servant at all times.”

The conclusion was inescapable. “Father reads my mail.”

“Not personally, sir, but other men have made attempts.”

“The Seymours?”

He nodded.

And that, she thought as she cracked open the filthy purse and dug out a set of unmarked keys, came as no surprise. Henry Seymour might have spun lies at her bedside about his brothers’ supposed ‘close friendship’ with the Prince of Wales but Will’s heart had told her a very different story; he’d liked but been wary of Sir Anthony but had regarded Thomas with loathing and disgust, a fact that had done more to confirm his good sense to Mary than anything else she’d discovered about him. “And Thomas More?”

At that Pieter demurred. “Father More is completely trustworthy, sir, although his recent health issues have rendered him less reliable than one would wish. He has a tendency to wander at times, and he’s frequently forgetful.”

That made her look up. “Forgetful in general?” she asked; if More had been brought to this world like her and Wolsey—

“His memory comes and goes, sir,” Pieter replied, dashing her hopes. “Dr. Butts suspects senile softening of the brain; last month he was found in the dungeons of Windsor searching for his wife. You were intending to write Sir John before you departed for France.”

“Then I’ll do so tomorrow; arrange for a scribe, if you will.”

She finally found the right key and unlocked the desk drawer, pulling out a stack of letters whose undisturbed seals spoke to Pieter’s probity and care. There was a letter from Emperor Charles; one from Anne of Cleves – Empress Anna, she corrected herself; one from an unknown correspondent; one in Anne Stanhope’s hand (thanks to God, she was alive!); and three bearing the inscription ‘À mon seigneur et bien-aimé mari le Prince de Galles’.

They were from her wife.

“There is one other matter I’d like to bring up with you – one of some delicacy,” she said as she set the letters aside for the moment. “My lady mother and Cardinal Wolsey both tell me I haven’t yet consummated my marriage, and yet they also say I don’t keep a mistress and have no bastards to my credit.” Her tongue felt thick but she forced herself to continue, her gaze sliding up to Pieter’s face. “Do I – tell me I’m not…”

“Your Highness is—” and he froze as her unspoken meaning brought a blush to his cheeks. “I can _most absolutely_ assure Your Highness of your utter fidelity to the laws of God and man.”

“I’m not a…”

“Not in the least, sir.”

She slumped back in her chair; thank God! Wolsey had half-said – or at least half-implied, which amounted to the same thing – that it might be better that William’s body had been taken over by a woman. At the time she’d wondered what he’d meant but Anne’s comment about Will not being ‘the type’ to keep a mistress…she hadn’t even been able to articulate the fear brewing in her belly, not even in her thoughts, but— “I am a normal man, then,” she reiterated. “I prefer women.”

Pieter’s face was by then beet red. “Sir, I – I cannot…you have never expressed abnormal tastes, Highness, I can assure you of that – but neither I have seen you express normal ones.”

_My nature abhors both sides._

That must have been what Will had been trying to tell her in that dream. He’d wanted her to know that he’d borne no interest in the act of love but Mary, despite living in his body, would always be correct and natural in her appetites. She would always favour the right side – and (as Wolsey surely must have foreseen) as a woman her more lustful nature would counteract any lingering reticence his soul had left behind.

The jewels she’d picked from the privet hedge had been her suitors, she realized. The French apple had represented the Dauphin, the Burgundy plum Emperor Charles, and the precious German quince Philip of Pfalz-Neuburg, the charming duke who’d courted her that spring. What or whom the Wiltshire apricot had represented she couldn’t know, but the pearl…

“Thank you for your candour,” she said as she rose again. “One other matter is puzzling me at the moment – a matter far less distressing, I assure you; have you ever heard of a teardrop pearl named ‘La Peregrina’?”

“It’s a crown jewel of Spain, Highness,” he said, his gaze shifting to a portrait – a Holbein, if she wasn’t far wrong – hanging against the opposite wall.

It was Anne of Cleves, younger and plumper than Mary remembered her, resplendent in a magnificent gown, a small boy clutching at her skirts and La Peregrina dangling at her throat. “Anne has a son?” she asked Pieter from over her shoulder.

“Five sons, sir, and two daughters. Your Highness stands as godfather to Prince Guillermo – the Prince of the Asturias,” he added after a moment’s pause.

“Godfather to his heir,” she murmured. “A solemn undertaking.”

“Solemn, Highness, but not unexpected, as Emperor Charles credits Your Highness with arranging his marriage to the Empress. The story related by my former master was that His Majesty wrote Your Highness while you were in Cleves regarding the Duke’s unmarried daughters. You replied that the Lady Amalia would make an excellent wife but the Lady Anna possessed every one of the queenly virtues.”

And so she did, Mary thought as she dismissed Pieter with a nod. La Peregrina was a Spanish crown jewel; had she been fated to marry Philip in her world? She supposed it didn’t matter; she was a man, and if Guillermo was the crown prince Philip had either died young or had never been born.

That fact drove in once again how at odds her new world truly was to the one she’d grown up in. Some lives – Jane Parker, Ned Seymour, Hal Howard, a million others – had been lost, while others – Anne Boleyn, Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey – had been saved. Some children – her beloved brother Edward, Frances and Eleanor Brandon, even Philip of Spain – had never lived, while others – King Louis, her new brothers Edmund and Charles, Francis Weston’s unborn child – had been given a chance. The monasteries flourished, the holy icons and statues and paintings still assisted the faithful, but – but—

_Oh, Edward, my sweet, precious brother; Elizabeth, what if you aren’t the sister I remember—_

But she stopped herself before she shattered into a million tiny pieces. Remember who you are, her mother had once told her; she allowed the words to flow through her and stiffen her spine. _You are an English prince; you are forged of iron, not glass_.

Not for the first time did she wonder if Mother knew what had happened to her. Could she see both worlds from her place by the Virgin’s side? Could she see other worlds where she’d left behind a large family of sons, or where Uncle Arthur had lived and Mary was his daughter? Were there worlds where Mary had never been born, where Gloucester the Usurper and his heirs still reigned, where her Norman ancestors had never landed at Hastings, where the Romans…but she shook her head: all that was beyond her own comprehension and far beyond her ability to imagine at the moment. She could only do her best according to God’s laws in the world He’d brought her to – and never forget who she truly was.

She might be a man now but in her heart of hearts she would always be Mary Tudor. Prince and princess, man and woman, king and queen in the fullness of time, God willing: she would have to endure and hide her essential duality for the rest of her life.

By the time Pieter returned with a brace of yeoman warders she’d composed herself and was back behind the desk idly flipping through her correspondence. “The Queen and I are expected to meet with the Imperial ambassadors at the outrageous hour of nine tomorrow morning,” she said to him, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the guards banging doors and overturning mattresses. “I’d like to hear early Mass as well, so…”

“Shall I wake Your Highness at half six?”

“If you would. I’ll be up for a while still; if you’d make up the pallet bed for Sir Francis – here he is,” she said as her companion for the night entered the room and bowed. “Was your father able to feed you, or should we send one of the boys down for a plate?”

“I thank Your Highness,” he replied with an easy smile as the guards filed out, “but Father had both an entire roast fowl and a plate of fruit hidden in his bedchamber. My mother despairs of his late night habits but they frequently serve me well enough.”

At that she laughed out loud. “And I had barley pottage and lettuce sallet! I suppose it helps to have a father who…”

“Who’s at court?”

“Who would sacrifice his comforts for yours,” she said, her mood sinking like a stone. “I have letters – three from Rénee, in fact – and I can’t muster the courage to open them. It’s hard for me to believe that I’m thought a brave man.”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps it takes a different type of courage to face the enemy than to confront oneself. If I might ask…your memories haven’t returned, have they?”

“Not in the least. I remember people well – some people,” she clarified, “but – but no, I don’t remember anything from before George pulled me out of the mud. I can trust him, can’t I?”

“Wiltshire? You’d trust him with your life, sir, and rightly so. He all but raised you; you think of him as a second father more than an uncle.” He paused, his gaze shifting to the letters in Mary’s free hand. “No matter what the Princess has written, I can assure you she only wants the best for you and for England. Nothing that’s happened is her fault.”

She snorted a mirthless laugh. “Wolsey said she has the good sense to obey Father in all things; how can I blame her for that?” she asked, shifting her attention to Pieter who was waiting patiently by her side. “Go find your own bed, Meneer – but have one of the boys sleep outside the door.”

“As always, sir.”

Mary waited for Francis to douse most of the candles and go to bed himself before she returned to Renée’s letters. Of the three two were only a single sheet and contained (as she’d suspected) little more than hopes for Will’s recovery and numerous promises to pray for him. It was the third that interested her most; a good ten pages long, it was dated the day before her accident and bore signs of having been in more than one hand, and although the seal remained undisturbed one corner of the covering paper had ripped – or been torn – in transit.

She took a deep breath and broke open the seal.

> _My Lord Husband_ , the letter began,
> 
> _I humbly recommend myself to Your most serene Highness and am desirous of your daily blessing, and humbly submit myself to you in all things excepting only GOD and the King, by whose command I have awaited your summons these four long months._

She frowned; what command was this?

> _Every day I ask myself why you have not yet sent for me,_ it continued. _I beg you, husband, tell me what I have said or done to turn your heart to ice. I am alone, abandoned and forgotten: but why? Why have you sought to forsake our vows, your sacred duty to GOD, and your duty to your realm? Why deny me my natural rights as your wife now that the King allows our marriage to be perfected?_

So he _had_ been ordered to consummate the marriage – and had refused.

> _If you would but tell me how I have displeased Your Highness and allow me to rectify my character or improve myself in whichever way…_

The letter went on in that strain for pages: paragraphs of pleading and cajoling and appeals to Will’s sense of fair play in English and, near the very end, French stained by tears of loneliness, desolation, and grief. Four long months – ever since Aunt Mary’s murder – she’d waited for his summons; four long months he’d let her moulder in the country, her pride (for she clearly hadn’t breathed a word of Father’s orders to Wolsey) the only defence she could muster against the pain threatening to devour her alive – a pain Mary knew all too well.

And it had been Will’s fault entirely.

His friends and family had spoken much of his honour, courage, strength, and compassion over the past two weeks, yet this paragon of princes, this warrior who’d faced men in battle without fear or qualm and laid the heads of traitors at his king’s feet, had abandoned his wife to a corrosive, bitter, lonely existence not because his father had commanded it but because he’d chosen his own comfort above the duty he owed God, the realm, and his wife.

_How could you?_ she demanded silently. _How could you cast away a faithful, innocent wife without even giving her a chance? How could you allow your ‘nature’ – your fears, your disdain, whatever name you’ve given it – distract you from your sacred obligations?_

‘To have and to hold’: it was the vow every man and woman made during the sacrament of marriage, the vow William had surely made as a boy even if he had been too young to understand what was being asked of him. But he’d never fulfilled that vow, and although only women were called upon to vow to be ‘bonair and buxom at bed and at board’ the Church still taught that a man who refused to bed his wife had no business entering into holy wedlock. Even the second Edward, he of base repute and even baser desires, had forced himself to sire sons on his lady queen, but Will had defied his father’s command, God’s holy law, and Renée’s natural rights as a wife for no reason but his own squeamish distaste for the act of love.

In his own way he was no better than his father.

She returned Renée’s letters to the drawer and locked them away, then doused the candles and crossed to the bed in the light thrown by the rising half-moon. To be so lonely, so unloved; to be treated so callously by the only man able to save her…

Francis’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Disillusioned, deeply disappointed in myself, and needful of severe correction,” she spat as she slipped under the fur coverlet and let the bedcurtains flutter shut. “Do you think Renée would be angry if I sent you to Hampton Court to bring her to court? Would she return with you?”

A short pause.

“I can leave in the morning if you’d like.”

Which was as eloquent an answer as she deserved at the moment. “Let’s wait until we’re settled in at Westminster,” she said. “I know you’re awaiting happy news of your own but I’m sure Renée could be ready to travel within the week.”

“I don’t think she’d need more than an hour. She might even man the oars herself.”

She ran her hand over her eyes as if to rub away the headache brewing behind them. “Was I really that bad of a husband?”

“Not bad, sir, not exactly, but…”

The lingering silence told her all she needed to know.

She bade him a good night and closed her eyes, her mother’s face suddenly coming to mind. _Pray for me, Mamá_ , she begged her with every scrap of strength she could gather; _help me make my way through this. God has brought me here, His will be done, but I’m so afraid, so very afraid and confused and…_

Princesses, Mother had once said, do not cry; she hadn’t said a word about princes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only blame (deep breath) a car accident, a broken ankle, months of physiotherapy, a wrong direction taken on US election night, bronchitis, pneumonia, Dropbox gremlins, and the worst case of writer's block I've ever experienced for how long this took.


	6. Fiat Voluntas Tua

24 September 1540  
Palace of Greenwich

* * *

 

“—and the second battle – if such a minor fracas can rightfully be referred to as such, naturally – was fought beneath the White Horse outside of Uffington. A decisive victory indeed for Your Highness’s forces, I am most pleased to report, with the heretics falling back toward their boltholes in Wiltshire…”

Mary listened to her guest with one ear while she tackled the enormous breakfast Francis Weston had just set in front of her. Dr. Butts’s orders that morning had been as clear as the ringing tones in which he’d lamented her recent weight loss; no fasting until she recovered, no skipped meals, and above all no more barley pottage. He’d permitted her a small filet of salmon that morning in remembrance of the general Friday observance but he’d also ordered her served with ham, eggs, quinces in honey, manchet bread and butter, and breast of swan, which he deemed ‘a most healthful viand for a man in Your Highness’s condition’.

As if there’d ever been a man in Mary Tudor’s ‘condition’ before.

She returned her attention to her guest as he waved his fork to emphasize whatever point he was making about the Wiltshire rebellion. Reginald Pole – Bishop of Salisbury in this world, oddly enough, and Will’s almoner – had arrived at her door while she was being shaved with greetings from the Privy Council and much avuncular tutting over her ‘grievous and most worrisome injuries’. She’d invited him to breakfast despite lingering misgivings over his loyalty; in her world he’d been a solid King’s man until the Great Matter had sent him scurrying to the relative safety of Rome, and she couldn’t rule him out as one of her father’s spies. But as they spoke of the Privy Council’s concerns, his own family, Thomas More’s ‘sad condition’, and now of the rebellion she consulted not her own memory but William Tudor’s heart, an organ that had yet to let her down, and there she found respect and infinite trust for this good-hearted and brilliant if slightly pompous man.

She all but winced; if only Will could have found room in that heart for Renée.

Pole had by then moved on to Devizes. “Now that was a true battle,” he was saying, “although by that time most of the veteran soldiers had either died in battle or fled to France, leaving the scholars in charge.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Scholars! You don’t mean priests?”

“Cambridge fellows for the most part, yes,” he sighed, “who unlike their colleagues possessed no knowledge of military tactics or strategy. Your Highness was able to manoeuvre their forces onto a promontory overlooking Roundway Down and drive them over a precipice: a dreadful loss of life, I must confess, with only a few stragglers remaining for the magistrate. One rascal escaped only to hide among the ruins of Avebury Priory. He was a fellow of Jesus College but I don’t recall his name…do you remember, Sir Francis? He was beheaded at Marlborough.”

“Cranmer, I think – Your Highness!”

“I’m fine,” she got out through the mouthful of food she’d almost swallowed whole, waving her hand to stop the page before he raised an alarum that woke the entire palace. “I – I overheard the name in Kent, but in a different context.”

Luckily Pole didn’t press the matter – she could hardly admit to knowing Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury! – and they soon moved to other matters; by the time they rose from table she’d recovered from her shock for the most part. “I understand Cardinal Wolsey’s crayer will be arriving at some point this morning,” she said as they cleaned their hands. “Please remind my Lord Marney to advise His Eminence of the Privy Council meeting and of this morning’s audience, if he arrives in time.”

His smile was little more than a show of teeth. “Of course, Highness – and I will begin the search for a new confessor for Your Highness immediately.”

She accepted a goblet of well-watered wine as the door to her apartments closed behind the bishop. Why Pole had bared his fangs at the mere mention of the Cardinal she didn’t know or much care at the moment; doubtless there were as many factions at this court as any other but her mind was drowning in an ocean of cares so deep she didn’t have the strength to take them into account, especially with the memory of Dr. Butts’s early morning examination making itself known all over her right shoulder blade. He’d shown up at her door at six to hem and haw and poke and prod, finally pronouncing her well on the way to a ‘moderate recovery’, whatever that meant: but his rules! Exercises to stretch the joint, meat and eggs at every meal, a ‘strengthening tonic’ that she suspected consisted of little more than chamomile and honey, and strict instructions not to drink unwatered wine or to practice defence for the time being. She could wear sword and dagger, he’d assured her, but she was not to draw them; sound advice given she had no idea how.

He had however cleared her to return to the virginals, an allowance made doubly sweet by the unexpected discovery that Will had played; in fact, she hadn’t realized he’d kept a private closet for his treasures at Greenwich until Pieter mentioned it that morning. “Tom,” she called, turning to one of the pages, “light the candles in my closet, if you would.”

As he bowed and hastened to obey she smiled to herself. The last two weeks has taught her much, although some things – how to walk and climb stairs in a larger body, bowing, certain gestures – seemed to spring innate from the body she inhabited. One of the first things she’d learned after the fog of the poppy syrup had lifted was that it was easier to order a man to do something than to ask him about it; in this case she merely had to follow the boy to the right door and—

And she stepped through the doorway, and her heart almost skipped a beat.

Had ever there existed a room so lovely, so completely aligned to her own preferences in every possible way?

She cast her gaze around as the evidence of Will’s exquisite taste emerged in the warm candlelight. The floor was covered with a lush turkey carpet, while the ceiling above the virginals boasted a glorious mural of a battle of some sort surrounded by flourishes of gold leaf. Stately portraits of her father, mother, stepmother, and an elderly lady – Anne’s grandmother Lady Margaret Boleyn, according to the inscription – had been mounted above a pair of sinfully upholstered chairs, and the shelves along the far wall held a number of astronomical instruments, a jewelled Nuremberg _dosenuhr_ , and books by the dozen.

She dismissed the boy, turning to the books with an inquisitive eye once she was alone. _Amadis de Gaula_ , Aristotle in Greek and Latin, _Novelle Natura Brevium_ , a collection of Erasmus, French adventures, saints’ lives, _Utopia_ …there wasn’t a single title she hadn’t read, not a book she wasn’t intimately familiar with – but hold on: what was this? She picked up the unfamiliar if gorgeously bound little booklet sitting on the little table next to the shelves and awkwardly thumbed through the manuscript until she came to a poem she knew all too well.

> _The lively sparks that issue from those eyes,  
>  Against the which there vaileth no defence,  
>  Have pierced my heart_

Thomas Wyatt, in his own hand – and from just last year, she noted with relief.

Mary continued through the book, smiling as she rediscovered old friends – _The Lover Laments, The Lover Sendeth Sighs_ – but what she did not find in those pages was more telling. There was no _Lover Despairing_ , no _Veritas Viat Fides_ : nothing, in fact, about Anne Boleyn or his weeks of incarceration in the Tower.

Of course none of that had happened in this world. Cranmer was dead – and God forgive her, the news all but made her heart burst forth in song – and England was still Catholic, but two incomparable masterpieces had never been penned. How many great works of art had been lost to the old world due to her father’s malice? How many had been lost to this one due to the Great Pestilence?

It was a question she would never be able to fully answer.

She returned the manuscript to the shelf with a sigh and took a seat at the virginals. Butts had encouraged her to play, telling her the gentle motions would be less jarring to the shoulder joint than writing or riding, but as she slipped her arm out of the sling and began on a slow version of _My Lady Carey’s Dompe_ (or whatever its name was here) she found the exertions – not painful, not exactly, but uncomfortable and more difficult than she had expected. If only Elizabeth could hear the mincemeat she was making of her favourite song! She would laugh—

Her fingers froze over the keys.

Elizabeth – an Elizabeth – was in that very palace at that very moment, but if Mary could be Will in this world her sister could be almost anyone; dark like Anne, blue-eyed like Father, slow like Harry Fitzroy, temperamental like Aunt Mary, or even graceless and ill-mannered like Nell Brandon. What if her brilliant little sister was lost to her forever? She tried to picture her face, so much like Father’s: the black eyes, the hooked nose, the little freckle perched atop the corner of the small, thin-lipped mouth…

The door opened; she looked over her shoulder to find Pieter waiting patiently. “Yes?”

“It’s half eight, Highness.”

“And I’m expected at the Presence Chamber at nine,” she said as she rose. “Lead on, then.”

The raying room was nearly empty, the grooms having already packed away all of Will’s vast wardrobe other than the gorgeous silk doublet and matching hose she was to wear to that morning’s audience. “You must have known Philippe Maioris during your time in service with the Archbishop of Cambrai,” she said to Pieter as Tom and Bartholomew unlaced the drab cypress outfit she’d donned that morning. “What can you tell me of him?”

“He is a scholar of some note, sir, and a man of great diplomatic talents,” he replied, “although I do not know him to have served as ambassador in his own right before. Perhaps it is for the best that the Emperor sent him from Cambrai and not Archbishop Chapuys.”

 _Archbishop Chapuys!_ She would have gasped out loud if the boys hadn’t been present. If Chapuys was Archbishop of Cambrai, if he’d been the one expelled from England… “Tell me about Dr. Maioris, if you would,” she said, flicking a brief glance in the grooms’ direction before returning her gaze to Pieter.

He gave her a quick nod. “The Dean is a man of sterling integrity and strict honesty who would never allow himself to be embroiled in scandal of any kind – although I must admit I once believed the same of my former master. He is also an avid conversationalist and a talented musician and in addition a composer of some note…”

Mary let him rattle on while her mind returned to the news he’d just imparted. She couldn’t help but smile at the idea of Eustache Chapuys enthroned as a prince of the Church and entrusted with a diocese on the front lines of heresy, but she had to wonder why he’d been sent to England on embassy and, more to the point, what kind of scandal he’d got himself involved in. Chapuys was a mature man of fifty and father of an adult son, hardly the type of man one would expect to embroil himself in…

Henry Seymour’s words came to her mind: his sister Jane had also found herself in a scandal, one which had ended with her removal to a convent—

_No, it couldn’t be._

Once the boys had finished lacing her into her doublet Pieter sent them off in search of something called the Great Chain of Estate. “I had anticipated Your Highness would wear the regalia of the Order of the Golden Fleece this morning,” he explained, “but the Queen sent a note while you were at table offering use of the Great Chain. I assumed Your Highness would prefer to comply, as she would not have done so had the King not permitted it.”

“No, that’s fine. Returning to the Archbishop, you mentioned something about a scandal. What happened?”

His cheeks flushed. “One could call it a tale as old as time, Highness. Might I start from the beginning?”

“Please do.”

He took a moment to marshal his thoughts. “His Excellency was originally sent to England by the Archduchess Mary to negotiate a marriage between her niece Anna of Austria and the Duke of Somerset, a matter of some delicacy given Her Grace’s betrothal to Albert of Bavaria and his subsequent apostasy.”

“He’s become a Lutheran?”

“And quite recently, yes,” he confirmed. “We arrived at Windsor in October of last year and by the middle of November negotiations were complete, but conditions in the North Sea kept us in England through Advent and Christmastide. It was during the latter that my former master embarked upon a torrid amour, if one might use the term, with a lady of the court – a distant relation of the Queen, to crown the shame.”

She would have given a great deal not to have been right. "You speak of Jane Seymour, then."

He nodded reluctantly. “Once the liaison was discovered His Excellency was expelled and Mistress Seymour was sent to a nunnery, although whether she is yet delivered—”

_Delivered?! Oh, Jane…_

“—I do not know; the lady’s condition was discovered when she fainted in the Queen’s Privy Chamber and the physician on duty summoned a midwife.” He lowered his voice. “Your Highness was of the opinion that His Excellency’s dismissal was due to his having felled a hind His Majesty had long stalked without success.”

The grooms chose that moment to return with a heavy walnut box, a smirking Francis Weston following close behind. “What has you so pleased this morning?” she asked once she’d extricated her lower lip from between her teeth.

“His Grace of Norfolk has requested an audience with Your Highness on a matter of the most exquisite delicacy, or so he says,” he replied. “If you’d rather I stalled him…”

She could have groaned out loud. “Doubtless it’s about his daughter; I’ll see him after dinner. Have the ambassadors arrived in the Great Hall?”

The smirk broadened into an outright grin. “Yes, sir, and His Grace is entertaining them as only he can.”

Mary would have smiled had she not been dreading the conversation with Edmund Howard with every fibre of her soul, as there was now no doubt in her mind that Father had ordered Kathryn to rush to her bedside hoping to ‘cure’ his dazed son of his lack of interest in love; in fact, she rather suspected Anne of inveigling Lady Langley to do the same thing the previous night. That the latter attempt had worked was due only to timing, as Mary’s new body had been far too weak to respond to Kathryn…but she turned her mind away from that abhorrent notion with a shudder of disgust.

The Great Chain of Estate was nearly identical to the imaginary collar Holbein had painted into the Whitehall mural, an odd coincidence given that in this world the painter had never visited England. She examined herself in the mirror once Pieter had set it in place, marvelling not so much at how the chain had come into existence as at how utterly unnerving it still was to see an unfamiliar face looking back at her. It might have been the first chance she’d had to view herself in a proper mirror in good light but she really should have been comfortable with her new countenance by then, even if the chin was cleft and the jawline…

But what was that?

She pulled her hair back into a rough ponytail with her good hand and stepped closer to the mirror, turning her head to and fro as she examined the remnant of what must have been a spectacular bruise curling around the back of her head. “I don’t remember anyone mentioning this bruise,” she said to Francis’s reflection as she let the hair go. “Did Dr. Phipps say anything about it, do you know?”

“Not to me, sir,” he replied, “but Butts and Chambers did say they were surprised Your Highness survived the injury. Butts thought you’d broken your neck.”

She frowned at him before returning to her reflection. If Will hadn’t been plucked out of an injured body, if he had broken his neck and died…

It was a disturbing thought. God might write the story of every man’s life but that story could be disrupted or changed for good or bad by man’s free will. Had Prince William died before his time, and had she been brought here to live out his life? God might be able to repair a broken neck (another miracle, she thought) but he would never wrench a soul out of Heaven. No, He must have brought Mary here to complete whatever work Will had left unfinished that was necessary for His holy plan.

Which made no sense at all. Did God care less about her old world than this one, or had Mary simply not been needed once Edward had been born? It wasn’t likely that she’d ever find out unless God’s plan required another person to be brought here – but that possibility set her stomach to churning. _No wonder Wolsey didn’t want to hear of what had happened after he ‘died’,_ she thought; _what man would wish to hear that he’d been forgotten or that his life’s work had been for naught?_

Her mind returned to the brother she’d left behind as the boys began to array her with the royal regalia. Edward would be a man one day, God willing, and would be the one admiring himself as servants arrayed him with collar and coronet, sword and poniard, rings and garter. Would his own crown sparkle more brightly without Mary’s shadow to cast a pall? Would the more intransigent Catholics finally bow to the inevitable and bend the knee to him instead of continuing to insist that Father’s excommunication had rendered his marriage to Jane untrue, and that she was the only legitimate heir?

The idea sickened her to her core. Jane had never known of the excommunication – nobody but the Holy Father had known of it – and had married her father and conceived Edward in good faith, just as her mother had conceived her in good faith that her marriage to Father was true. Edward was just as legitimate as her…if he were indeed Father’s child and not—

She coughed to disguise the snort of laughter that almost caught her by surprise. No matter how unlikely the possibility, no matter how ridiculous the idea of a Queen of England breaking her marital vows, it would still serve Father right if the prince he’d destroyed Mary’s world to sire was in truth the bastard son of a Savoyard priest.

But that brought to mind the child conceived in this world and, more to the point, the unrequitable debt she owed its parents in the other. “I’d like you to make discreet enquiries about Mistress Seymour and her child,” she said to Pieter as the last buckle was tightened. “I don’t trust her family to do right by it; if necessary I’ll step in and have the infant raised properly. His Excellency will hardly thank us if we let his youngest child perish through lack of care.”

“Aren’t you afraid people will think the child is yours?” Francis asked.

“And if they do?” she retorted. “His Excellency will hardly complain if the fire under his feet scorches another man’s soles.”

Anne’s apartments were located at the end of a long private corridor that ran behind the east wall of the Great Gallery. Mary was surprised to discover that walking with sword and dagger at her waist was easier than she’d expected, even with half a dozen men and boys watching her every move: easier, in fact, than the first time she’d worn a farthingale. How Lady Salisbury had fretted and fussed! She could only thank God that her old governess was still alive and well, if living in comfortable retirement in the country; too many of those she’d loved had died years before their time, and—

And the door opened to reveal Anne with her ladies, her crown perched on top of a head of iron grey hair.

It was a sight she’d never thought she’d see; Anne Boleyn had let herself grow old.

“Your Majesty, lady mother: I bid you a good morning,” she said as Anne gestured for her to rise from her knees. “Might I have the honour of accompanying you this morning to His Majesty’s Presence Chamber?”

She smiled. “Of course you may – and don’t think I fail to appreciate your courage either,” she said, turning to one of her ladies. “The first time Will and I received an envoy on our own he was so nervous he hid behind one of the marble statues in the gallery. It took George ten minutes to coax him out.”

“Mother…”

Anne’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Will, you were eight! Why don’t we process through the Gallery ourselves this morning? That way the court can witness the – the unity of the royal family.”

She held out her good arm. “A splendid idea, madam.”

Of course there was no reason for anyone to doubt the unity of the royal family; Anne’s true intention was to reassure the court that the Prince of Wales was on the mend and, more importantly, in full possession of his faculties. A prince could hardly sneeze without inciting a flurry of gossip, after all; an accident as catastrophic as Will’s must have sent tongues wagging across the realm and beyond.

As they stepped out into the gallery Mary glanced at Anne again out of the corner of her eye. The Anne Boleyn she’d been acquainted with as her mother’s maid of honour might have been a snake but her serpentine nature had been formed in the fashionable courts of Burgundy and France; that Anne would never have let her hair go grey, let alone appear in public with ragged brows and hairs sprouting on her chin. Had the six years she’d spent imprisoned with the French Queen in this world stripped her of her pride even as it preserved her humanity, or had marriage to her father worn her down? For a queen to—

“À BAS L’ANGLAIS! VIVE LE CAUVIN!”

A woman’s horrified cry; the glimmer of candlelight against steel; Mary’s poniard leaping into her hand as a tall, gaunt man in friar’s robes bore down upon them, a fearsome knife clenched in his bony fingers; dodging, thrusting, a scream of pain; a savage twist upwards, blade scraping against vertebra and rib, blood spraying out; accusing eyes boring into her, lips moving wordlessly, a last gurgling gasp – and a body dropping to the ground in a pool of blood.

She’d killed a man. She’d taken a human life.

For the space of a single breath no one moved, no one spoke, the echoes of the assassin’s knife clattering against the tiles the only sound that dared breach the silence, and then a woman let out a high-pitched shriek. “There’s nothing to fear!” Mary shouted, desperate to forestall panic. “He’s dead! The Queen and I are safe!”

At first she feared it wouldn’t be enough – and it almost wasn’t, she could see from the terrified faces surrounding her – but then old Lord Sandys harrumphed, a bishop to their right made the sign of the cross, and the crowd heaved a shared sigh of relief before breaking out in nervous chatter.

Sergeant-at-Arms Stonor was at her side almost before she’d resheathed the blade she didn’t remember drawing. “Bloody hell!” he cried. “How did he get through—”

“We’ll worry about that later,” she barked. “First, secure the palace and clear the gallery, and send a detachment of guards – madam?”

“He – he almost killed you,” Anne stammered as she clutched at Mary’s arm, her eyes fixed on the assassin’s twitching body. “If I hadn’t suggested – if I – if we’d gone through the back corridors instead—”

Lady Sussex stepped forward. “Majesty, perhaps you should return to your rooms.”

“But we’re supposed to receive the ambassadors—”

“I’ll meet with them myself as soon as I’m finished here, I promise you,” Mary said as she detached herself and handed Anne over to the lady-in-waiting. “Thank you, Lady Sussex.”

The gallery quickly emptied once the courtiers realized there was nothing more to see; Mary, her heart still pounding, would have followed their example but before she could return to her apartments she spotted Cardinal Wolsey at the top of the stairs with his men. “Eminence!” she cried, waving him over. “If you could—”

But he rushed past her and crouched beside the assassin’s body. “Has he received the final offices, sir?”

She blinked. “His last words were ‘à bas l’anglais, vive le Cauvin’.”

“ _Le_ Cauvin!” he repeated, dropping the dead man’s wrist. “In that case he won’t thank me for helping him to Heaven, although he might have done with a French lesson or two. How did he die, if I might ask?”

“He charged us with a knife and I…I stabbed him.”

He gave her a searching look before shaking his head and returning to the body. “Fresh tonsure,” he murmured as he examined the top of the man’s head, “too fresh, in fact, given the sunburnt forehead. Your Highness said he was carrying a knife?”

“A jointing knife,” she replied. “The kind used in the kitchen to separate animal spines.”

“Aye, and it would have done a fine job of separating human ones if Your Highness hadn’t stopped him,” Stonor interjected. “Mind you, it gives us a chance to trace his movements. He had to have stolen the knife from the kitchens; it’s not like he’d bring it all the way from France.”

Wolsey regarded him coolly. “I think you’ll find our man either a homegrown heretic or a German, Sergeant; not even a Breton would make the mistake of using a definite article with a man’s name. And there’s this,” he said, holding out the contents of the purse he’d fished out of the assassin’s robes. “French silver, as bright as the day it left the Paris mint. A true French agent would have the sense to carry English farthings; he’d have to eat and sleep, and which inn or alehouse in England would take King Louis’s coin?”

“But why would a heretic want us to think he was French?” Mary asked as one of Wolsey’s men helped the Cardinal back to his feet. “Surely such a man wouldn’t have wanted Cauvin and his ilk to take the blame.”

“That, sir, I cannot say, but I do fear this matter bodes ill not just for Your Highness’s safety and that of the Queen but also for the reputation of the Church. In that light, I would ask the sergeant if he would allow one of my clerks to assist in his investigation.”

The grizzled veteran considered the offer while Mary, unable to listen to another word from either of them at the moment, returned to her attendants clustered near the door leading to the King’s apartments. What did she care how the bastard got into the palace or where he came from? She hadn’t chosen to kill him; her left hand had drawn the poniard and plunged it in his belly before she’d registered what was happening. If only she could forget the blood spurting out and soaking into Anne’s skirts just like it must have when…

…when Father murdered her.

But that was going too far. A king could kill unfairly, that she knew, but he could never commit murder. Everything done lawfully was done in his name; everything done unlawfully was done against his personal majesty. Perhaps the distinction was sophistical but—

Wolsey’s creaking baritone cut into her thoughts. “The envoys have returned to Westminster under guard at Lord Russell’s suggestion. I wonder if Your Highness would wish to return to your apartments.”

“I had wanted to speak to my sister…”

“Your Highness may do as you will, of course, but a change of attire would be advisable,” he said in low, soothing tones that nevertheless held an undercurrent of something Mary couldn’t quite place. “I would not wish Your Highness to cause Her Grace any unnecessary distress.”

She frowned; why would he think— “If you believe it’s for the best.”

“I very much do, sir. Master Bowden, if you would?”

They followed the sergeant of her private guard back to the door of her apartments where an ashen-faced Pieter took over and wordlessly shepherded her into the raying room, but it wasn’t until she caught sight of herself in the mirror that she understood why Wolsey had been so insistent. There was so much blood! Her hose was ruined, her doublet as well; even the collar of her shirt had caught an errant spray of some evil fluid. With a sigh she allowed Pieter to remove her regalia and strip her of the sodden clothing, but why she hadn’t noticed…

 _Anne had bled just as much,_ her inner voice reminded her.

And she wasn’t the only one, was she? Anne, Francis, Thomas More, and George Boleyn were only the tip of the iceberg; dozens of blameless Englishmen had lost their heads and thousands more had been hanged or burnt for no reason other than her father’s malice. There had been so many of them – monks, priests, farmers, gentlemen, even women and children. Had he ever felt so much as a twinge of guilt over sending so many innocents to God? Did he have the capacity to comprehend the shock twisting her guts into knots simply from having killed an undeniably guilty man?

“Sir?”

She gave Pieter a feeble smile. “I was lost in my own thoughts. I only hope the rain hasn’t washed out the Dover Road; Charles and Edmund are expected at any moment and given what just happened I’d rather they were safe behind palace walls than wandering the countryside.”

“I don’t believe the road is in danger of flooding, sir; Wednesday’s rain was the first in almost a month. Shall I draw Your Highness a bath?”

She shook her head. “The Cardinal is waiting for me; a basin of hot water will have to do.”

Fortunately her clothes had absorbed most of the blood and other liquids; once she’d scrubbed off the remnants and had been redressed in the drab cypress from earlier that morning she rejoined Wolsey, who was waiting in her closet with a tray of biscuits and a flagon of watered wine. “I thought Your Highness might wish to cleanse your palate,” he said as she gestured for him to join her at the table. “I am, of course, at your command; if there’s anything else you would like…”

“Thank you; just – just sit with me a while, if you would.”

They sipped at their wine in silence, Mary trying to make sense of the morning’s horror. “It isn’t his death per se that bothers me,” she finally said as she gazed into the depths of her goblet. “He was either a spy or a traitor and he deserved to die. I’m only glad my body knew what to do. But all that blood…I’ve never been witnessed an execution but I can’t stop thinking of the innocent men and women Father sent to the scaffold. They must have felt the axe or the sword; how could they not? And yet everyone says it’s an easy death.”

"I doubt any man’s death is easy, Highness.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Mine was. I didn’t feel a thing, and now…and now I’m surrounded by ghosts; ghosts I mourned, ghosts I barely knew, ghosts whose deaths I exulted over. I even had masses of thanks sung when I was told of Anne’s execu—” Her voice died off as Wolsey’s face grew deathly pale. “Eminence?”

“He – he didn’t – after all I did to smooth – he had her…God in Heaven with his saints,” he cried, making the sign of the cross. “After all my…”

“Eminence, you couldn’t have—”

“I should have seen it,” he said, his eyes hooded with shame. “I should have realized what would happen. I know the King; I know how shallow his love runs. I always thought of him as Echo and Narcissus combined, but to discover he was in fact Nemesis…thank you, but you shouldn’t.”

She put down the flagon and pressed the goblet into his shaking hands. “My haughtiness is long broken, Eminence,” she told him. “I also must remind you that you are a Prince of the Church and my godfather. Please, drink.”

He dutifully obeyed, allowing Mary to refill the goblet before she returned to her seat. “I’m not sure what to say,” he confessed. “I’d thought he’d never forsake the woman who gave him a son…or did she not?”

“That's why he killed her; Elizabeth was her only living child. I’m not sure how many miscarriages she suffered, but after the last one – but I’m sorry; you had said you didn’t want to know.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “I most certainly do not, but if I am to be of any help to you in this I feel I must. Might I ask that you start with what you know of the situation at my supposed death?”

It had been a lifetime since she’d thought of those early days but she complied as best she could, taking him through the events of the past ten years starting with Cranmer’s arrival at court through her father’s pretended marriage to Anne, Elizabeth’s birth, her own incarceration at Hatfield and the abuse she’d endured, the beheadings and burnings, her mother’s abandonment and poisoning, the downfall of the Boleyns, the Pilgrimage of Grace, Edward’s birth, the fallout of the supposed Exeter plot that saw most of her York cousins beheaded, Cromwell’s elevation and execution, and the marriage to Kathryn Howard; once she was done he could only shake his head in disgust and amazement. “That he could execute an anointed Queen – wife or not,” he added in response to her frown, “but Henry Norris, his closest and oldest friend? And a woman heavy with child? I do not rejoice at the news, I assure you, but if your father has that in him it does explain why he persuaded the Emperor to invade France in autumn.”

She blinked. “You know about Queen Amalia’s pregnancy.”

“I’d heard rumours – although not for the first time,” he clarified. “The French cardinals in residence at York Place are inveterate gossips but not necessarily accurate ones; this will be the fourth time news of a pregnancy’s been bruited about. I take it your lord father intends to have her put to death?”

“If he reaches her before the birth,” she said, marvelling at the quickness of his mind. “Will loathed the idea and refused to have anything to do with it, which is I believe why Father had me drugged for a good week and a half after the accident; he was afraid I’d remember and try to send word of his intentions to the Emperor.” She barked a laugh. “Will wasn’t the most obedient of sons, was he? I received a letter from Renée last night; ten pages of tear-stained pleas begging him to reconsider his refusal to bed her despite Father ordering it four months ago.”

“In truth I’m not surprised. Are you aware…”

“Of his disinterest in love?” she said, nodding. “He came to me in a dream and showed me I had to – to join the rose with the lily, as it were. But can I? I’m not married to her myself; I’ve never entered into the sacrament.”

He frowned in thought, his eyes unfocussed as the fingers of one hand tapped lightly against the leather armrest of his chair. “God would not have brought Your Highness here if he did not intend you to take the Prince’s place both publicly and privately,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “He must intend you to live as the Prince, and as you possess a man’s body you may enter into marriage with a woman. The issue is that, as you said, you are not – Mary is not – legally married to Princess Renée. Fortunately the benevolent hand of Providence has cleared the way, if you don’t mind my waxing poetically, as in the normal course of events we would need to petition the Holy Father for dispensation—”

“Because Will was my brother.”

He held out his hands. “Under canon law you could be nothing else. That said, the Holy Father just two months ago issued the bull _Dum in partibus_ in which he authorized the papal legates _a latere_ to dispense from canon law on various matters while he leads his troops into France. I therefore am capable of authorizing Your Highness and the Princess Renée to marry notwithstanding her prior unconsummated marriage to Prince William, and I hereby do so. May I escort Her Grace to Westminster tomorrow once I’ve completed the necessary paperwork?”

“Tomorrow?!” she squeaked. “ I…yes, that would be for the best. You are certain this isn’t fraud? If she thinks she’s marrying William…”

But Wolsey was already shaking his head. “You aren’t impersonating the Prince, sir; God has placed you in his body and you have not just the right but the solemn duty to take his place. As for the vows themselves, I will explain to the Princess that…that her husband has no memory of the original sacrament and in addition feels himself a completely different person than before, an excuse no less useful for being the unvarnished truth. William, after all, wouldn’t have known a jointing knife from a cleaver.”

At that she couldn’t help but snort. “Hatfield taught me more than how to joint a lamb, Eminence. I may have bent when I swore the Oath of Supremacy but I have never broken.”

“You could hardly do otherwise with the blood of Katherine of Aragon coursing in your veins,” he said as they both rose. “I would also beg Your Highness’s permission to investigate today’s unfortunate incident with a free hand. If this is the result of a heretical conspiracy I feel it my duty as papal legate to see justice done.”

“Only if you agree to be careful. I’m not ready to face this world alone, and I don’t think it’s your time to meet God either.”

He bowed over her hand. “I am Your Highness’s loyal servant.”

Mary took a moment after his departure to swallow the lump of panic rising in her throat. Her mother’s old Spanish crucifix, the one containing a sliver of the True Cross, hung against the far wall; she knelt before it and begged the Lord to soothe her mind, to give her peace amongst the multitude of fears pressing upon her soul. She was afraid of failure, afraid of letting England down, afraid of disappointing Renée, but all those fears shrank to nothing in the face of her greatest fear: heresy.

For a woman to lay with another woman was a sin so grievous that it was rarely if ever spoken of among ladies of quality, and in fact she wouldn’t have known it possible had she not overheard two kitchenmaids whispering about it at Greenwich. But God had placed her in a man’s body and given her a man’s appetites; how could trusting in God and following His holy directions lead to sin? In this she must think of herself as a man, for if she remembered her sex…

 _No_.

God had put her here; she had to trust in His wisdom and goodness. _If this is your wish I will do it and gladly_ , she prayed, _but please: guide me. Help me._

She returned to her sitting room to find Lord Russell in attendance. “The court will be following the Imperial envoys to Westminster this afternoon,” she said to him with a brief nod to the captain of her guard waiting by the door. “I take it they didn’t express any annoyance over the delay?”

“They wouldn’t complain even under less dire circumstances, Highness,” he replied. “The Emperor relies far too heavily on the King’s good will in this enterprise.”

“Our good will and our hackbutters, my lord. I do wish to meet with the Princess Elizabeth before we leave, however, so – yes, Bowden?”

“The Princess was brought to the Queen’s apartments about ten minutes ago, Your Highness,” he said as Pieter arrived with her hat and gloves. “I can also report that the royal barges will be ready to depart at two and that per the Queen’s instructions Sergeant Stoner has sent men down the Dover Road to redirect the Princes’ procession to Westminster.”

She breathed a sigh of relief; she’d meant to give that order but in the confusion after the assassination attempt she’d forgotten. “Then if there’s nothing else, my lord, we’ll speak again at Westminster.”

A cluster of ladies-in-waiting – and one religious sister, oddly enough – greeted her as she stepped through the door leading to Anne’s Privy Chamber. “I’ve been told the Princess Elizabeth has been brought downstairs,” she said once the usual courtesies had been exchanged. “How is the Queen?”

“As well as can be expected,” Lady Rutland said, “although she is still unsettled, of course.”

“And why wouldn’t she be?” the nun snapped – and only then did Mary recognize the sharp-nosed face lost amid the folds of a Benedictine wimple.

It was her old friend Anne Stanhope.

“We weren’t told of the attack, were we, Mistress Bray?” Nan asked the thin girl standing next to her, but before the child could make a reply she forged on, her eyes sending icy shivers up Mary’s spine. “No more than we were told of Your Highness’s dread injury. Might I be permitted to ask if my letter of the eighth has come into Your Highness’s hands?”

“I received it last night but I haven’t had time to read it.”

Nan’s upper lip curled into a fleeting sneer. “Then we will await Your Highness’s instructions.”

The South Gallery was as deserted as the Privy Chamber, with only Anne’s personal guard in attendance; she nodded a greeting to the guard at the door and stepped into the brilliant sunshine streaming through the high windows, her gaze alighting on a group of riders gathering in the courtyard. But it wasn’t the men below or even the faint sounds of a sprightly volta echoing through the door of Anne’s closet that had her swallowing back bitter tears; it was the loathing, the _disgust_ in Nan Stanhope’s eyes.

_She hates me. My closest friend hates me._

Logically she knew it was nothing of the kind; Nan had always been prickly and unfriendly, and if she hated anyone in this world it was Will. Unfair or not, though, the rejection stung her to her core. _Will this never end?_ she asked her reflection. _Will I never reach peace in this world? Will I constantly be thrown from stem to stern, from port to—_

A burst of applause from behind the door interrupted her thoughts; after a pause the music resumed, this time in a stately pavane. She silently waved the guard away and reached for the door handle, taking a deep breath before entering the closet and silently pulling the door shut behind her.

At first she couldn’t tell if the girl sitting at the virginals was anything like the sister she’d left behind; her head was covered by a voluminous hood that obscured not just her hair but the back of her neck as well, and although the set of her shoulders and her light touch on the keyboard were achingly reminiscent of Elizabeth she simply couldn’t be certain. She tiptoed to the front of the room, dropping Anne and the nun sitting beside her a silent bow before squatting beside the bench—

How she kept herself from gasping aloud she would never know.

The girl’s hands suddenly froze over the keys and she spun toward Mary. “Will!”

“Bess, I—”

But before Mary could get another word out Elizabeth flew into her arms, her raw, deeply scarred face burying itself in the crook of her neck. “Mama said – tell me you remember me…”

“I do, I promise,” she assured her. “I’m here and I haven’t forgotten you one bit – but here: let me take a look at you.”

The girl drew back, her eyes brimming, and if Mary’s were just as wet she didn’t care one bit. Smallpox be damned: it was her sister to the last freckle! “I remembered you before anyone else,” she said, cupping Elizabeth’s chin and wiping away her tears with a thumb. “I remember you better than I do myself. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better. The scabs started to fall off on my birthday and Sister Dorothy finally let me look at the _Ab Urbe Condita_ you gave me.” She frowned down at Mary’s sling. “Mama said you hit your head and lost your memory. She didn’t say you broke your arm!”

“That’s because it’s only a dislocated shoulder; it’ll be fine in a few weeks. I was so worried – I’m so glad you’re still yourself. I prayed for you day and night, prayed for you even more than for your brothers or our lady mother or even our lord father the King. Have you dined yet? I’d love it if you could—”

“I thought we might dine _en famille_ after we hear Mass,” Anne cut in, smiling to soften the blow. “Bess, why don’t you go upstairs and fetch your veil?”

She clearly didn’t want to leave them so soon but she obeyed, curtseying prettily after giving Mary another hug and allowing herself to be shepherded out by the nun. “I wish they’d told me about the scarring,” Anne said once they were alone. “Sister Dorothy is the most patient of women and an excellent governess but neither she nor Sister Anne have bothered to write me. Did one of them by any chance happen to contact you?”

“Sister Anne apparently did,” Mary said, “but I…there was a letter from Renée as well, and…”

One eyebrow rose to the brim of her hood. “And?”

“And I’ve sent Cardinal Wolsey to Hampton Court to escort her to Westminster.”

For a moment she thought Anne was going to make the sign of the cross but her hand froze in mid-air. “Then I will be pleased to receive Her Grace,” she said. “Might I ask why you’ve – Lady Rutland, what is it?”

“Dr. Skypp has just arrived, Majesty,” she said from the doorway, a lace veil in one hand. “I wondered if you wished – Purkoy! _NO!_ ”

But the little ball of fluff that had just darted out from behind her skirts had no intention of stopping; the dog made a beeline toward Mary, tail a-wag and eyes a-sparkle, but as it reached her it skidded to a halt and glared up at her angrily, its expression a mixture of uncertainty and wounded pride.

“He knows you’ve been injured,” Anne said. “It’s all right, boy; it’s just Will.”

 _But that’s the problem, isn’t it?_ she thought as the dog nervously approached her outstretched hand and gave it a tentative sniff. _I’m not Will and, dumb beast or not, you know that._

Purkoy inspected her fingers carefully before permitting Mary to scratch him under the chin, although he still wasn’t completely comfortable. “I suppose it’s the sling,” she said as Lady Rutland removed Anne’s hood and replaced it with the veil. “Surely he can’t smell Father’s tonic on my breath.”

Her eyes twinkled again. "You’re still taking the cordial? No wonder he was so pleased with your recovery; it’s the first time you’ve allowed him to physic you since you turned sixteen.”

“Majesty, if I may?” Lady Rutland asked, waiting for permission before continuing. “Purkoy might be reacting to Your Highness’s injury itself rather than the King’s medicines – efficacious as they must naturally be,” she quickly added, somehow evading even the slightest hint of sarcasm. “My lord husband often speaks of the day His Majesty visited Cardinal Wolsey at Hampton Court after his own grievous injury. Poor Ball…or was it Cut? At any rate, one of his spaniels almost bit the poor Cardinal and neither could be induced to stop growling until the King departed for Windsor.”

“And that just after His Eminence rededicated himself to God and turned over a new leaf in his life, as if he had been made anew…” but Anne’s voice trailed away as her gaze rested on Mary’s face for an instant and childish laughter in the hallway heralded Elizabeth’s return. “I’m certain you’re right, Eleanor,” she finally said, “but let’s not think of that right now. Would you accompany Bess and me to Mass, Will?”

“I – of course,” she gabbled as her fears roared back. If Anne suspected, if she had any inkling…

But no: she couldn’t borrow that trouble right now, not when her cupboard of cares was already overfull. She’d sent an assassin to Hell by her own hand, she’d faced terrors she’d never imagined, she’d lost her best friend, and within a day she would be married – and not as wife but as husband.

John Skypp had elected that day to celebrate an abbreviated Mass, likely at the instigation of the Queen; as the holy words of the Confiteor, the Gloria, and the Kyrie washed over the tiny congregation – spoken today, not sung – Mary turned her mind toward God, begging Him to hear her. _I give myself over to you,_ she promised, the words bubbling up directly from her soul; _I dedicate myself to your service and make myself an instrument of Your holy will. Fiat voluntas tua!_

—and almost as the words left her mind a great peace descended upon her, a peace that cut through the anxiety and shame and uncertainty and grief, a peace that could only be God’s doing – a holy miracle.

It was all she had, perhaps, but it was everything she needed.


End file.
